The Glass Hand
by eggcrook
Summary: A single maneuver in a cosmic duel among a trio of witches cascades forth into a wave of events connected by five fingers of glass. From the Shady Dragon Inn, to the royal court of Karameikos; players become pawns, grasped in the inscrutable game by the Glass Hand.
1. The First Day

_ The landing was dark and silent, but the girl lifted the lamp  
>and gliding past him slipped down the polished stairs to the hallway.<br>Then unchaining the bolts, she drew open the iron wicket._

_ Through this he passed with his rose._

_ – Rue Barrée, Robert W. Chambers_

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><p>The First Day<p>

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><p><em>Broderic Roam forgot the time. The circling stars marked the passing from middle watch to morning watch as he stood unmoving in the chill air of an unseasonably late frost. Through the faint glow of moonlight in the cloud of his breath, he watched a different faint glow flickering in the sea off the port side of the ship. Not quite blue, not quite green, and not quite there, like an alien star in an alien sky.<em>

_The watchbell clanged behind him and Roam, startled, glanced left. In that instant the light was gone. He leaned forward, staring into the darkness. The old galleon gently rocked like a pendulum in the waves, then, just barely, a shudder out of time?_

_"Wake up, Roam! Time to change!"_

_Not trusting himself to look back again, he remained at the edge of the deck. "I want to stay. I think its important."_

_"Ain't up to you Roam, its the powers that be what sets our comings and goings. And they don't take surprises lightly. Enjoy that one last dream, cause its landfall tomorrow and that means no rest for the weary."_

_Roam let loose the rail, and unfixed his gaze on the dark waters. Walking toward his hammock, he felt his tension unwinding into exhaustion and his thoughts into memories._

_But then the deck rocked as the ship struck- was struck? and the world went the wrong way and his footing failed and he began to slide right into -_

- a frozen morning that had burst late over the ice encrusted ridge. Shafts of golden sunlight streamed through cracks in the rime, illuminating the dark pine forest in the valley below. Not a moment later, in a puff of snow, the metal shield decorated with a red, red rose overtopped the crest. Face-down, and already accelerated to breakneck speed, the shining disc soared into the air as though it were riding the rails of the sunbeams.

Three huge black furred wolves followed after, dark shadows leaping and snarling. The wolves landed, sure-footed on the ice, and gave chase. The shield hit the snowpack with a bone-jarring crunch, then skidded and spun jerkily downhill. And clinging to the back of the makeshift toboggan, not even trying to steer, was the huddled form of Broderic Roam.

He was tucked into a ball, curled over his knees as his folded legs bounced erratically on the backside of the shield. One arm was looped through the leather handholds, and he held the other wrapped around his ducked head, trying to ward off the inevitable crash. He was wearing thick woolen trousers and a woolen jacket with sturdy leather pads, but his teeth still chattered from both the vibration of the unwieldy vehicle, and the shivering of his body in the onrushing night-chilled air.

He tried to look up, his blue eyes squinting through the round cloud of snow dust the shield snubbed up, which showered over and onto him and trailed behind like a comets tail. But the random spinning back and forth of the rudderless craft unfocused his eyes and the horizon appeared little more then a dark blur between the mountain-shadowed winterscape and the golden sunlight in the deep, clear sky.

Broderic pulled his blue woolen hood down over his short blonde hair, then tucked his free hand between his stomach and his knees. He flattened himself as much as possible, vainly seeking some kind of stability. Beneath his jacket, he could feel the sealed messenger's pouch strapped tight to his torso. He had been hired to carry it from the mountain sanctuary back to the town in the foothills below. The shield he was riding was also part of the parcel to deliver, and it came in handy when the pack of wolves, thin and hungry after the harsh winter, had come rushing at him. The attack had happened just as he passed the trailhead that marked the winding path to the valley below. With the howling black beasts bearing down him, it was an easy choice to drop his backpack and take a leap of faith.

Careening downward, toward the forest, he began to approach the snowline. The ice thinned, and the screeching hum of shield against frost was punctuated by irregular percussive and scratchy shrieks, as red rocks poking through the disintegrating white snow bounced the metal sled back and forth.

And then, silence and stillness, as again he was airborne. A weightless and momentary break from the intolerable shaking and jerking. An instant feeling of relief washed away by the horrible realization he was falling – how far? and bracing himself against the inevitable -CRASHSPLASH! A double shock from a sudden landing, followed by the freezing meltwater in the river at the cliff base swallowing him whole. He had gone right off a ledge into the racing downflow. Utter cold wetly engulfed him and shocked his mind into blackness as -

_- the dark water closed around him entirely. He was lost in the backwash of a great wave, helpless and alone and sinking in a sea gone mad. One final breath and the stars above were lost. But then he saw the stars below._

_Beneath his own ship, crawling with scrambling sailors, was another, larger form, crawling with lights that changed precisely and hypnotically and intelligently. Every color appeared in a thousand different shapes, and the hues and boundaries collided in a confusing discord. The lights moved with terrifying, impossible speed. And at the center was a dark void, shimmering shapelessly in the glare of it's chromatic corona, rising slowly, out of the deep, toward the ship._

_An involuntary cry of terror opened Broderic's mouth, and the sea rushed in, filling his lungs. The wet blackness inside and out closed over his mind. Then his shoulder was twisted as the rope-tied deckhand diving into the water grabbed it and began to pull him -_

- under, sunk by the weight of the heavy shield lashed to his arm. It caught at the rocky bottom of the mountain stream, and his elbow twisted violently. A cry of pain was cut short and changed to bubbling gurgle by the fast moving current submerging his whole body.

He struggled to draw his hunting knife from his belt, in order to cut the shield straps, but the sheath was bound to the leg opposite his free hand. Reaching out, he grabbed onto the rim of the trapped shield, and pulled himself back against the current. The muscles of his unentangled arm strained and his legs uselessly kicked against the water, but he moved just enough to loosen his trapped limb. At last his hand jerked free and he was instantly pulled downstream, into the rocky rapids flooded with the spring melt. Gasping and floundering, he could barely keep his head above water.

Then he was caught up by the branches of a huge tree, felled by the muddy surge, whose roots still held fast in the ground. Bracing himself against the trunk, he managed to pull and roll and drag his body out of the current and onto the shore.

On hand and knees Broderic tried to examine his aching arm. Twisted, but not broken, he concluded. He was below the snowline now, in the pine forest. The ground was covered with dead brown needles sealed in icy patches, and scattered down the hillside were occasional drifts of snow, a doomed rearguard still fighting against the dawn of spring.

Dread howls rose up, not far away, and the desperation of his pursuit returned. He fled into the trees, cradling his injured arm. The cry of the wolves was drawing close and he knew he would not be able to outrun them. There was nowhere to go, but up.

Climbing a tree one-armed is as hard it sounds. He tried to use his hunting knife as a climbing spike, but it made little headway into the icy pine wood. The chosen tree was tall, and the first branch was well over 20 feet up. He slowly moved his feet from knot to knot, his hands hugging the enormous trunk with what strength his injured arm could muster. The howling drew closer, and he tried not to panic. The toes inside his slick, dripping boots were as soaked and numb as the rest of his body. He started to shake uncontrollably.

Broderic drew level with the branch just as the wolves burst into sight. One of them leaped at the trunk of the tree, its jaws snapping shut inches from his boot. He flinched involuntarily, and could feel himself start to slip. Desperately he pushed off with what strength he had left, and managed to catch the branch with his one good arm. He hung there helplessly trying and failing to pull himself up. The wolves sprung wildly, trying to latch on to his dangling feet. With a final burst of adrenaline, and a great cry of pain, he forced his wounded arm out to grab the branch. It's strength held but for a moment, but it was enough to haul himself high enough up to throw a leg over. His arm throbbed in agony, and he clung to the branch panting and shaking. Below, the thwarted wolves circled and gazed hatefully upward.

Now that the rising sun had topped the eastern mountain ridge, its yellow warmth quickly lowered into the valley, saving Broderic from immediate hypothermia. Still, he was unable to stop shivering. His blue and grey woolen clothes were heavy with newly unfrozen water, and the heat was leeching from his body like sand through a sieve.

He lay face down on the branch and clung to it with his legs and arm, looking down at the hounds that had treed him. Two of them stared fixedly upward as a third circled the tree trunk furiously, sniffing and snorting. Broderic tried to meet the merciless gaze, but he felt he was looking at more than ruthless animal instinct. The black eyes seemed to be focus on his with an almost human intelligence. He looked away.

The three wolves paused and shared glances, as though communicating. One of them turned and raced back the way they had come. The other two, including the biggest, sat their haunches into the snow, lowered their giant jaws onto their front paws, and settled in to wait.

Broderic's shivering got worse. The sun would dry him out eventually, but he might not live to see it. He needed to get into dry clothes. He needed a fire. His arm jolted pain as his body shuddered, trying to warm itself, and he was so tired and his eyes closed for a moment and he -

_- held fast to the rope as the boat rocked in the enraged ocean. The ship righted, but was not right, its rhythm lost and its familiar vibration altered. The young sailor, like all the hands, could sense the hull had been breached. The men around him shouted orders and scrambled frantically, but instead of helping, he walked trance-like into the hold, to the Windcaller's cabin._

_The Caller was new, and Broderic had watched her work her magic with youthful fascination, but she never acknowledged him. Being the youngest and newest member of the deck crew meant there was always someone giving him an order, but he would steal time to watch her work when he could. He listened as she stood in the center of the deck, and spoke with strange words. Alternating between plaintive and begging, then harsh and commanding, she called the wind into the sails which billowed and strained and pulled the ship on its way. Broderic had tried to remember those words, and practiced them at night, while he struggled to stay awake in the crows nest, watching the horizon for trouble. _

_Somehow he knew that now was the time he ought to come to her. It was simply and obviously the thing that must be done. His mind was filled with the blissful certainty of right action entirely at odds with his frantic surroundings._

_Her cabin was huge, larger then the ship, and made of smooth unworked stone. Like an underground cavern. But this impossible geometry did not disturb Broderic. The Caller was seated on a stone throne shaped like a hand. She appeared as she had on the deck. Wrapped in a great white cloak, the over-large hood veiling her eyes, only hands and mouth visible. Her lips smiled cruelly, and she raised a hand, beckoning him. The hand was transparent, and looked as though it were made of glass._

_The cruel lips spoke strange words with a dull, hypnotic sameness:_

"_There is an inside allaround. There is an outside faraway. Between this self and this cosmos are words and numbers, timeless and placeless, both everywhere and nowhere at once."_

_Broderic stood before her now, hypnotized by the complicated words which uncritically wrote themselves on the blank slate of his mind. He seemed very small, and she stood up and looked down on him, seeming very large._

_In the darkness beside her a shadow rose up. Not a shadow, but a man, in a huge cloak as black as night. More then just black as night, it was the night. In the cloak were stars, and nebulae appearing as real as if they were being seen through a window. He saw the constellations used by sailors to steer at sea, familiar and now close enough to touch. Like the Caller, the man's hood was pulled low over his face, only his mouth visible. But while the woman's mouth smiled with condescension and mocking, the man's mouth frowned with worry._

_He spoke: "Son of earth and starry sky, remember when you are!" His words were stilted and voiced in awkward singsong tones which jumped about in pitch, trying to counter the caller's uninflected monotone._

_But she did not acknowledge the stranger's presence and she spoke a second time:_

_"Nameless, whenless boy, why so afraid of death? Don't you know you are but words and numbers? Neither inside nor outside? You have no beginning and no end. Why fear a moment when infinity is your nature and your inheritance?"_

_Behind them, through the cabin door, came a strange shriek above the terrified shouts of the men. Broderic turned and saw a great arcing violet blaze burst the hull and bore into the ship's heart. As he looked at the destruction impassively, the stranger spoke in his jarring polytonic way: "Hold fast to when you are, child. You have a beginning and an end, you are still inside what is outside. You still have a name!"_

_The Caller caught his chin with her glass hand and turned his face again toward her cruel lips. She spoke a third time:_

_"There is a power in nature that cloaks the culmination of being. A power that masks the endlessness that offers eternal rest from the burden and terror of beginnings and endings and identity. A power that claws from you the control you deserve, the control that shaped you. The control that is you."_

"_Yes," shouted the stranger, "It is a power that has been there from the beginning and beyond the beginning. It is true to its nature, and in its radiance the illusion of eternity cannot deceive!"_

_Broderic did not understand the words the two cloaked figures were proclaiming. But he could sense the man's desperation, his need to communicate, and again he turned towards the figure in the cloak of stars._

_The man was no longer there. Instead, beside the Caller, now stood a tree. A strange, blue, limpid, leafless tree, glowing gently. Broderic looked up at the tree and took a step toward it._

_It's many branches hung limply like a willow. And then he saw shapes of light and dark in the spaces and shadows of the tree limbs. They moved along the hanging stalks like falling leaves of varied kinds, colored shadow puppets projected through stained glass. The shapes danced and changed. A violet flame appeared and then icicles grew around it and then bright wolves moved toward the scintillating purple void. The wolf shapes were wrapped in the blue light of the tree and their blue breath roared forth and overwhelmed the violet fire. He saw winged lions made of light, also glowing blue, turning away the dark purple flames. He saw a great sea beast, bigger then a giant squid or a whale, bigger even than the thing outside in the water, wrecking the ship. The sea beast was blue against the violet void. A void mad and intangible and splintering with shards and shapes, shapes and colors like those in the water below._

_The violet flame was here._

_The cracks made in Broderic's awareness by the stranger's distracting words widened and split, and the blue fire of the tree rushed through the jagged gaps and poured inside him. Suddenly aware and wide awake, he turned and looked at the windcaller. The white cloak was now nothing but air and shadow. Only the mouth remained, twisted in a mocking smirk._

_He was overwhelmed with the shameful, self conscious realization that he had been manipulated. A great hatred for this thing before him filled his heart. He felt his rage turn outward and blue light from the tree fill the space the rage left behind. He became like the sea beast, joined in essence and in purpose. He struck forth and the shadow vanished before him, along with the cruel mouth and the glass hand. But a single glass finger remained, and fell clattering onto the throne._

_Broderic picked it up and looked at it thoughtfully. The pupils of his eyes had widened beyond the iris and into the whites so they were almost entirely black, like the sea monster's single eye. Around him the stone room was no longer there and he was in a small, empty wooden cabin. He was alone, no man or tree or lights or windcaller remained. He stood there, quaking with the ship, holding the strange finger between his own fingers, his back turned to the doorway._

_Outside the cabin, the ship finally broke to pieces, and water rushed into the room. But Broderic recovered effortlessly, swimming against an impossible current and breathing the brine as easily as air. Just like the sea creature could. He swam out of the debris into what was now open ocean, still holding the glass finger._

_Towering before him, above him, below him, on all sides were the tentacles of violet flame spawned by the aberrant thing, weaving through the broken wreckage of his ship. And he could hear them, a metallic grating sawing sound, and a rhythmic chant of a hundred voices repeating a single syllable over and over. The sounds were full of need and hunger and hate. It rang in his ears. It echoed in his mind. It shuddered in the water around him, thrumming deep into his bones._

_He held the finger forth, and a giant tentacle of purple and shadow spiraled around and below him, its tip reaching up, up toward the glass finger, and the sounds coming from it broke into hysteric screams of pain and ecstasy._

_But Broderic let the finger go, and it plunged into the ocean depths, accelerating faster then any natural thing could fall, even in air. Too fast for the dark and fiery tentacle that tried to catch it. In a storm of current, the monstrous chaos accelerated downward into the deep, bringing with it the terrible lights and the terrible sounds. It hurtled after the glass bone, falling like a meteor, and vanished into the abyss. At the moment he dropped the finger, Broderic felt a great wrenching loss, as though part of himself was being torn out as well. The pain washed through him leaving him numb._

_He remained there in the dark water, floating gently, feeling nothing. Nothing but cold. Very cold in fact. Alarmed, he saw ice blocks grow around his hands and feet, and then slowly start to encase his entire body. The power of the sea beast was no use against this. He remembered the wolves he had seen in the play of leaves made of color and shadow between the branches of the tree. The wolves that had fought in the ice as effortlessly as the sea beast moved in water. The numbness swallowed his body and closed in on his mind, and he struggled to call forth those wolves with their blue breath, snarling, biting -_

- howling with fury, Broderic's head jerked up. The hypothermic trance was broken, and the freezing wet clothes no longer weakened him. A blue light had formed around his head like a mask, wolf shaped and wide-eyed with a new, feral rage. He looked down from the tree at the two startled black canines, and to their shock, leaped straight at them.

He landed on the back of the smaller wolf, headfirst, arms outstretched. The mask flared into complete substantiality, its icy teeth rending the hounds flank. With strength far greater then his own, Broderic threw the creature to the side, where it crashed to the ground, howling with pain and surprise.

The larger wolf just had time to stand up when a blast of absolute cold burst forth out of Broderic's lungs and through the mask's now bloody mouth. The black giant shuddered and dropped dead. Its blood was frozen in its veins.

The first wolf righted itself, flinching from the pain of the wound torn in it's side. It hesitated only a moment, and then ran towards the woods yelping.

But Broderic was already above it, leaping again from the hillside, and he brought the remaining wolf crashing down with him. The mask's jaws closed over the furry throat, and beneath the blue light his own lips were pulled back and his teeth were clenched. He pressed his nose and mouth into the wolf's neck, smelling the matted fur, feeling the crunch against his face as the blue jaws crushed the windpipe. He held the wolf down, his enhanced strength too much for the helpless animal which kicked and pawed pathetically.

The forceful pulse of blood from its torn arteries spurting against his face weakened, and then stopped, The life of his prey was spent. He spit out blood and fur and threw back his head in a triumphant roar.

With no enemies in sight, Broderic felt his rage subside, and the blue wolf mask faded back to translucent immateriality. The light remained in this faded form, no longer granting the feral savagery and icy breath of the winter wolf, but maintaining it's lesser power of resistance to cold. As reason flowed back into his mind, replacing bestial instinct, the messenger remembered his purpose on the mountain and the shield he had lost.

He started back toward the stream, where he had left the heavy metal disc wedged in the rocks. It was a weird and sorry sight. His blue woolen clothes were now muddy and bloody, and spotted with wolf hair. The blue, ghostly wolf mask around his head was punctured by blonde tufts of wet, matted hair, His injured arm was cradled against his side. Passing the fallen tree that had caught him out of the current, he slogged uphill through the muddy melt until he reached the rocky rapids where he had cut the shield from his arm.

But it was gone.

He groaned. The shield was important. He had to try and find it. The need to think and plan widened his awareness to let in the pain and exhaustion his focused searching had pushed out. He squatted near the rocks, still wet and dripping. The sunlight had yet to reach the ground in the shadow beneath the ledge from which he had fallen.

Broderic brought his hand up to his face, and felt a faint thickness in the air as he wiggled his gloved fingers through the sides of the phantasmal wolf mask. It wasn't the first time this strange power inside him had come to his rescue. It had started just after he washed ashore. After the shipwreck.

The castaway's arrival was an ominously mysterious event in the fishing village. No debris followed him, and he was found clinging to none. He had no memory of what had happened on the ship, just dark and disturbing dreams that flashed with weird colors, and cruel smiles, and the taste of salt and fear. And when the villagers tracked the name of the ship, they realized he must have been in the ocean for days, and drifted hundreds of miles. He must be the luckiest boy ever, the temple adept had smiled at him. Or accursed, whispered the sailors who glared when he passed, because -

_- lucky is in the eye of the beholder. Broderic Roam, lone survivor of the wreck of the Mnemosene, should have counted himself lucky. But sailing towns are superstitious, and infamous wrecks leave infamous survivors. Young, broke, and unemployable in his profession, the sailor wandered inland. Passing through the dark forests of the lowlands, following the rivers up into the hills, he made his way to the town of Threshold._

_In the high country at the furthest edge of civilization, where most people had never seen the sea, he finally settled down to start over. Taking work as porter and guard for the hunters and trappers who always live on the boundaries of human lands, Broderic traded the ways of waves and stars for those of trees and tracks and shadows. In less then a year he could hire out as a guide and tracker in his own right, and lived off the land. His fortnightly visits to town for supplies and work never lasted long, and he spent his private time reading and fishing and wistfully watching the boats on the lake of the town._

_He never went out on the lake, but fished and watched from the shore. The shipwreck had not left him with a fear of water, but with the belief that he was cursed with bad luck, and to sail again was risking catastrophe for himself and the boat. He dropped his catch off in the fishing village just north of town, and traded stories about sightings of the lake monster, and the one that got away. Several fishing crews offered him a spot on their craft, but he declined._

_His books were borrowed for the day from the Baron's library at Tarnskeep on the lakeshore. The fat scribe who looked after them was more then happy to lend the sun bleached or worm eaten tomes slated for recopying in exchange for fresh fish. The books kept Broderic near the town. He was offered work as a scribe, but declined._

_In the winter he trudged to the hunting cabins in the hills, carrying messages and supplies back and forth between trappers and traders. He got to know the hunters and their stories and stayed for a few all night revelries after a lucky days hunt. He was invited to join them, but declined._

_He remained at the edge of things, content in the security of living with people who didn't question things and lived each day like the one before. But Threshold never quite became home, and he still introduced himself as a traveler passing through, "I'm Broderic Roam, a sailor from far away." And when he closed his eyes, he could feel the ground rocking like the deck of a ship -_

- as he rested with his eyes shut, catching his breath, perched on the rocks at the stream shore. His reverie was interrupted by a piercing glare as the sun topped the ledge and moved toward midday. He squinted and stared at the rocks for a moment, then rose and began to stretch.

He was dripping wet, and he could feel the added weight of the clothes pulling him down, as though gravity had somehow gotten stronger. But the almost frozen water did not chill him as long as the blue mask flickered faintly about his head. Taking advantage, he stepped into the shallows and washed as much of the remains of the dead wolf off his body and clothes as best he could.

Then he saw the tracks in the dirt, and stopped moving.

How long had he sat there? What had been watching him? The tracks were misshapen, and deformed in the mud. There was no telling what made them. But the spacing, right-left-right-left, was clearly made by something large. Something that had taken the shield.

Broderic heard nothing, smelled nothing. He stood and looked around, staring, listening, and slowly moving out of the water. He remembered the third wolf, the one that had raced back after he climbed the tree, and the strange intelligence in the eyes of the second. The attack had not been an unfortunate, chance encounter with hungry animals. Something had sent them. Something that might be out there, watching him, right now.

As if summoned by his silent recognition, a strange wind began to twist around Broderic. The brown, dead pine needles were picked up by the swirling vortex and he had to close his eyes against the prickling debris. Squinting, he looked around wildly, into shadowy crevices under the ledge, between the branches shrouded in evergreen, below the blue deeps of the stream. But he saw nothing but air and water and darkness.

And then he heard a distant wail, both near and far, both real and imaginary. It was such a quiet sound, barely audible, but like a clap of thunder it disrupted his thinking, and drew his whole awareness into it's eerie tone. The sound quickly became terrible to hear, almost silent and entirely intolerable.

His heart began to beat faster and faster. He started breathing in ragged gulps, as if he were out of breath, and dizziness rocked his perception. A strange tingling was in his fingertips. He tried to control his breathing, but whenever he slowed his gasping heaves he began to black out. The faint blue light of the wolf mask vanished.

And then he saw the eyes staring right him. Angry killer eyes preparing to – wait, no it was a tree. It was just wooden knots on the wooden trunk. But it was hard to see. Brown and green colors that looked like a tree, were arranged like a tree. Yet somehow, his eyes couldn't put the shapes together and hold them in place.

Then everything began to dissociate, and every shadow was a wolf, and the sound of the water was howling, and the smell of blood and death was in his nose, and he was running, running, running down and away as fast as he could.

Green bursts of foliage appeared here and there, but the forest mostly remained wintry and open. In a month, the ground Broderic covered would be impassible with every kind of shrub and flower, but now the only thing slowing him was the steepness of the hills, and the slickness of the mud. He skittered down the slopes heedlessly, sliding and leaping great strides, and his legs jolted with the continuous impacts until his joints hummed a continuous dull ache. He ran from the monstrous wolves that were lurking just to the side, and behind him, and wherever he could not see. They sneakily stayed just out of sight of Broderic's wild, widened eyes, but were as real to him as the sun at night and the stars during the day.

He ran and ran, crazed and desperate, like a harried stag, heading eastbound and downward as the sun moved low behind him. At last the hills began to level, and ahead of the runner was almost to the end of the path he had left that morning. When he had been riding the snow, atop the rose marked shield so many hours earlier. And beyond, on the horizon, the smoke and lights of the town of Threshold blurred and glittered.

He sprinted for the leveled path like an athlete charging for the finish line. But just before he crossed over, before he could step onto the bright cobblestone path beaming out of civilization, he stopped. Standing on the road was a great white horse, and atop it was a beautiful woman, with long blonde hair and heavy silver armor. She looked unflinchingly at him, alert and wary.

In Broderic's warped mind, her worried stare was an aggressive leer, and snarling he drew his knife from the sheath on his leg. Instantly the woman, staring down at the blood and dirt covered madman, drew her own mace and raised her griffin-emblazoned shield.

But the sight of the symbol on the shield had a strange effect on the messenger, and activated memories that drew parts of his mind out of panic. He stared at the shield in confusion, head tilted and brow furrowed.

And then, echoing from the horizon, he heard the great bell of the cathedral of Threshold begin to ring the sunset hour and the gentle, resonant tone opened his awareness into -

_- sudden wakefulness. There were four more clangs, and everyone at the sanctuary, including Broderic, got knocked completely out of slumber. He glanced at the sealed window in the tiny, cold room above the stables. Not yet dawn._

_The stables where he had slept were for the horses, but the greater, fortified temple of which the stables were a part, was where the Order of the Griffin trained the flying steeds that were their namesake. The temple was high up, in the mountains under a great ridge where the powerful beasts built nests for their eggs. The carnivorous and eagle-headed griffins favored horse meat, and the so the stables were heavily built, which made for a warmer place to sleep then might otherwise be expected. The smell was still bad._

_Broderic yawned, and replaced the few things he'd taken out of his pack. Then he strapped it on, hopped up and down, and walked a circle to check the load balance for the long hike ahead. Carefully, he climbed down the rickety ladder to the ground and went out into the courtyard._

_He'd made deliveries for the adepts and griffin trainers before, during the winter months when the trails were too icy for horses. They had always given him a small sealed package of letters and documents. They never made him swear any vows of secrecy, but he knew better then to tempt the magic they commanded, which they might have used to seal the contents. He wasn't really tempted anyway. He liked being a messenger, and the adepts were old and boring and didn't seem like people with interesting secrets._

_Today was different however. Instead of being greeted good morning, there was a breakfast of bread and cheese already set out for him on a table by the door. Next to it was the sealed messenger's pouch and a filled waterskin. Also, leaning against the table, was a large round shield with a red rose on the front. _

_A note was left beside the items:_

_ My shield marked with red, red rose,  
>Borne in snowmelt, before the sunrise,<br>Down with the dawn, as time's sand flows,  
>Ten thousand miles, as the crow flies.<em>

_Broderic frowned, and looked round, listening. But there was only the quiet breathing of horses. Was this a joke? A game? The note made no sense._

_He picked up the shield and studied it. It was beautifully made. Circular, with the great rose on front, and the edges made into a ring of silvered brambles with engraved thorns. He tried it on and it wasn't terribly heavy. He ran his arm through the carrying strap, pulling it up to his shoulder, and reached round to tie down the other side of the round disc to his pack._

_Broderic disliked tricks and tests. He was curious, and enjoyed solving problems, but artificial complications bored him. His first impulse was always to open the door, to speak the secret, to cut the knot. If this was a game or a prank, then taking the shield would force the conspirator to make a move. If it was just an elaborate request to carry the shield along with the pouch by a frustrated poet, then no harm done._

_He ran the strap attached to the messenger's pouch under his jacket, over his shoulder, and around his body. After binding it tightly, he tucked the waterskin in his backpack, and carried his bread and cheese in one hand. Then he went back into the stables and out through the side door in the outer wall, into the wilds outside the mountain retreat._

_Immediately after closing the door, there was a bang as the bar locked behind him. Now he was certain something was up. Turning he looked back at the stone wall and up at the battlements. But everything was still. He looked up toward the cliff over the temple. At sunrise the griffins took flight, and on other occasions he had stayed to watch the flock soaring into the morning sky, but today it was still too early._

_Annoyed at being toyed with, he set off down the steep switchback toward civilization. He paused three times and looked back, listening and waiting for whoever left the note and barred the door to appear, but no one was there. In the distance he could hear wolves howling, but they had always stayed clear of the main trail._

_The shield was actually pretty awkward, now that he was moving. He stretched and twisted a little, trying to settle the backpack more comfortably. Then he sighed and tried not to think of how long it would take to complete the delivery of -_

- the messenger's pouch in one hand, he cut the cord. Lowering the knife, he silently held up the leather bundle to the startled woman.

The silver armored, griffin-emblazoned knight watched Broderic warily for a few moments. Then, cautiously, she took the package from him and unsealed it. Inside were several scrolls. Keeping one eye on the messenger, she scanned the contents. Words on one particular scroll made her start with alarm. "Oh, no. It's happening again!"

She looked up the road toward the mountain, glowing ominously red in the sunset. Then she looked down at the disheveled and disturbed young man below her. Thinking a moment she produced a metal canteen, and tossed it to him. He caught it reflexively. "There's no time. I'm sorry." The woman said. She raised her mace and it flashed a golden radiance that caught and echoed on her horse's hooves with a shimmering afterglow. Then she turned her steed and galloped off toward the trail winding up toward the icy slopes, while Broderic stared dumbly after her.

He opened the canteen automatically, suddenly aware of how hungry and thirsty he was. It was full of sweetened goat's milk, warm and creamy, and he drank almost half of it in one continuous drought. Something in the milk, some kind of medicine, calmed his crazed imagination. The world started to fall back into a rational order, and there were no more dangerous, staring shadows. The sun's orange afterglow faded into a peaceful starry sky.

Focused at last, he stood there awkwardly. His expression was as confused as the face of a stranger who has opened the door and walked into the wrong house. He tilted his head back and his saw the constellations gently appearing. The familiar stars to steer by winked on one by one, the same over land as over sea. He turned slowly, as their names and stories automatically surfaced in his thoughts, and in this the way it was the sky that grounded him.

Unexpectedly, the cathedral bell clanged a single time and much too early. Startled, he glanced right. A mistake? Broderic paused and wondered for a moment about the aberration in time, but only for a moment. His arm ached. His body was exhausted. And in the deepening darkness he began to shiver again from the cold. But the light of the blue wolf mask did not appear this time.

He stepped onto the road to Threshold.


	2. On The Road, Part 1

_ The girl was leaning far out from the window,  
>and he caught her by the waist, crying, "Not too far!"<br>but she only murmured, "Faster! Faster!  
>away out of the city, out of the land, faster, faster!<br>away out of the world!"_

_ – The Street of Our Lady of the Fields, Robert W. Chambers_

* * *

><p>On The Road, Part 1<p>

* * *

><p>Dusty Drifter materially disintegrated. The magical forces controlling him were too powerful, and his body broke into to pieces. His right leg separated and crumpled to the wooden floor, bent backward at the knee. His left leg rolled against the wall. One arm hung on to his torso by a few strands of sinew, and the other detatched and bounced under the cot by the wall. His severed head landed last and split open, spilling its insides in a lumpy pile.<p>

"The center did not hold," frowned Dusty. One hand was stopped in mid-spell somatics, the other hand was holding a bundle of twine that had been suspending the doomed marionette he'd crafted to look like a tiny version of himself. Dropping the strings, he pointed to the ceiling and yelled, "Ok, Tyche, what'd I do this time?!"

Laying on nearby cot, crumpling her barmaid's apron, Milla half-stifled a giggle. "I knew your brains were sawdusty, Drifter," she laughed. Milla brushed back her dark curls and smiled the impish grin she always seemed to be wearing when she spent time with the new bard. "But maybe it's for the best. I mean, its a pretty complicated-"

"It's genius," Dusty interjected. "How can I tell the story of the Thing With Three Souls unless I can simultaneously be four unreliable narrators?" He set down the twine and got onto his hands and knees and began to gather up the pieces of the puppet.

Milla tried to look sympathic, but her eyes betrayed her amusement. "I just think it might be a little, you know, _high-concept_ for the Shady Dragon." She sat up and reached under the bed. After picking up one of the puppet's missing arms, she mused, "Remember the time you tried to tell the Curse of the Thothian Mummy and opened with a twenty minute funeral dirge? In Thothian?"

Dusty took the missing arm from her and gathered up the other pieces into a pile. "That was _authenticity_. If that drunken dwarf Bigby hadn't interrupted by tying the end of my bandages to the donkey dressed like Ptah before he smacked it ... " and then he broke down laughing with Milla.

He uttered a few arcane phrases, and a greenish glow appeared around his hand. He touched the pile of wood and leather body parts then snapped his fingers. The mending spell retied the doll's connecting straps, and repaired the damaged head. "It's just that I spent all day on the nose ..."

The tiny alcove in the corner of the kitchen was poorly furnished. But it was the entire, grudgingly offered, contribution to the fine arts by the rough and tumble Shady Dragon Inn. Dusty held the puppet's head next to his own and critically compared them in the smudged looking-glass that rested on the cabinet. The green buttons were a decent match for the color of Dusty's eyes, and the bunch of brown straw plucked from the indignant maid's broom was as irregular and unkempt as his own sandy brown hair. It actually looked a bit like a tiny scarecrow, which was an impression the gangly bard himself inspired. They were both dressed in matching brown linen shirts and pants, and green woolen cloaks. The cloaks weren't an exact match since the smaller cloak had been cut from the edge of the large cloak, now oddly disfigured, in an impromptu moment of inspired tailoring.

Milla stood behind the two Dustys and put one arm around his shoulder and leaned her head next to the puppet's head, so that the cloth and clay contraption was in the middle. She met Dusty's eyes in the mirror. "I checked and there's no royals tonight anyway." (Royals didn't mean the actual royal family, of course. It was just a code word for rich clientele.) "So there's nobody to here to impress. It's all loud dirty trappers headed down the mountain who haven't bathed since last spring. C'mon Drift, let's go. You know more dirty songs than Valerias. Get 'em worked up and I'll give 'em a big smile and then I'll sell 'em the most expensive imported Rockhome ale in the cellar." She gave him an encouraging pat on the back.

Dusty sighed, and after one last look, tossed the puppet onto the cot. He followed Milla out into the inn's common room. Peering over the bar, he squinted his eyes and scanned the tavern surreptuously. Then he wrinkled his nose. Milla had indeed correctly identified the mental, libidinous and olfactory qualities of the audience.

The bard knew he would have to start the evening off with Mighty Mitch and (sigh) Fat Friar Fart. It was a song about a priest of Zirchev, the lord of nature. The priest would free animals from the trappers' snares. But Mighty Mitch, the trapper's trapper, hides in the bushes with a blow dart dipped in hot sauce, then shoots the animal as soon as Friar Fart frees it. Each animal then goes into a rage, visiting upon Friar Fart a sequence of disgusting, humiliating, or painful indignities. The song was the national anthem of the trapper community, and Dusty would end up being forced to enact it eventually. So, he decided, it was better to just get it over with.

But it wasn't pretending to sit on a porcupine that bothered him about the song. It wasn't having everyone nearby throw their drinks at him when Fat Frier Fart jumps in the lake after freeing the enraged pyrohydra. It wasn't having to crawl on the filthy tavern floor, balanced on two hands with his legs curled back over his head, pretending to be the displacer beast that trips the priest repeatedly. And it wasn't even that a song about a man named Fart inevitably invited an escalating competition of public flatulance.

See, there really had been a Fat Friar Fart, only he wasn't fat, and his name had been Fortis. And while he did free animals from traps, he also saved trappers, even magically turning aside an avalanche that almost wiped out a cabin with two dozen people. So there had been a tradition of each trapper releasing a few animals that were young and uninjured from their snares every season, saying it was for Friar Fortis' collection plate. But in the twenty years since the Thyatian invasion, the huge influx of foreign immigrants to the north country had led to heavy competition for the once abundant game. The tradition was quickly abandoned, and somehow the Friar Fart song had sprung up to take its place, with Fortis transformed from kindly protector to laughing stock.

Dusty was no druid, and didn't know or care about things like natural balance or sustainable hunting. He took no side in the guerilla campaigns that sometimes flared up beween the hunters and the Zirchevites. But he took history very seriously. And his first attempt to enlighten the trappers with a more _authentic_ version, had ended with him head down in the rainbarrel.

But then he saw something that pleasantly surprised him. Seated at a table by the wall, was an annoyed looking man dressed in black. He had thick black hair, and a stormy, black expression. And stacked on the table and on the bench beside him, were books. Lots of books. Dusty's face lit up. A chance for new stories! "Hey Milla, who's that guy?"

She turned from loading her tray. "You mean the crabby librarian in the back? Dunno, but he's been nursing the cheapest drink we have for an hour, and he's takin' up a whole table to do it."

"Recon, please? I might get to borrow some books out of this."

"Ok, Drift. But he doesn't seem the type to do favors." She grabbed an extra beer from the bar and brought it over to the table in the back. "On the house, sir." She smiled, bent over much lower then she needed to, and placed the drink on one of his papers.

"Be careful you wheedling hussy!" He snatched the paper, some kind of map, to his chest. "As you can see I already have a drink, and if you think looting your owners' stores will entice me to give you a non-mandatory tip by slipping me this unnecessary beverage you are sadly deluded. Now, I believe as long as my cup is unemptied I am entitled to remain here. And I intend to. Begone!"

Milla took back the drink and turned to look across the room at Dusty. She gestured toward the man, now behind her. Then she silently mouthed some words that, spoken aloud, might have both opened the gates of the Abyss, and intimidated its inhabitants.

But Dusty was undetered. He dodged past the patrons and slid into the empty bench across the table from the stranger. "Howdy, howdy! Whatcha readin'?"

The man looked appalled. "Away, brash urchin. If you need a place to sit, you'll have to wait for an open table, I have no intention of sharing."

Dusty ignored him. "Hey, what's this thingamabob?" He picked up a metal disk with a glass face that resembled a compass, but with multiple spinning needles, and few strange protruding antennae.

The man gasped and snatched back the device. "By Thanatos, what do I have to do to get some privacy here?! I cannot abide any more interuptions disrupting my search! I should like to throw my drink at you, except that it would force me to order another from that bosom-brained harlot!"

Dusty looked hurt. "Hey, leave Milla alone. She's pretty bright, and one day she'll-"

"-make head harlot around this dump, I'm sure," the man interrupted. "Now dream your little social-climbing-peasant dreams somewhere else. Time is passing."

Dusty took a deep breath, gritted his teeth, and tried one last time. "If you're looking for somebody, maybe I can help. I'm here most nights and everybody in this part of the country passes through the Shady Dragon."

The man raised a dubious eyebrow. "And in return? Nobody does anything for free, after all."

Dusty eyed the stack of books.

The man's face flared with anger. "My precious, priceless books?! Are you mad?!"

Dusty held up his hands, and shook his head, "No, no, no. Not to keep, just to read - for the stories. I'm a storyteller."

At this the man smirked, and gestured an invitation to the stack. Dusty took the first tome from the the top and opened it. To say it was in a foreign language would fail to convey it's absolute incomprehensibility. The pages were full of diagrams and symbols and tables of what might be numbers in scripts Dusty had never seen. And Dusty had seen a lot. He could even read arcane writings, but this was something entirely different. He flipped through the book, hoping that eventually something might be recognizable.

The moment he turned the last page, the man immediately snatched back the book, slammed it shut, and carefully replaced it on the stack. He spent a moment making sure the corners were exactly aligned with the other tomes. "Now that you've had your read," he sneered, "fulfill your end of the bargain."

"Are they all like that?" Dusty asked, disappointed.

"Of course. I don't waste time lugging around overheated love stories or ridiculous tales of heroic melodrama." He leaned closer to Dusty and spoke lower. "The man I am looking for is an elf. Tall, possibly a half-elf. He's easy to notice. He's missing half an ear."

Dusty thought a moment, "Seen lots of elves, seen lots of half-elves. But always with both ears intact and pointy. Maybe-"

"Ah, of course, of course," the man muttered sighing. He took out a single copper coin, and held it in front of Dusty with a seductive grin. "Such wealth for a slave, hmm? What tiny, futile dreams in your shallow, unimaginative soul does this glittering fortune awaken? Come, come, tell me when he was here and this treasure can be yours."

At first Dusty thought the stranger offering the copper coin, as though he were gifting some tremendous favor, must be trying to cast a charm or delusion on him. But he realized the man was serious, and Dusty was both amused and disgusted. "Nobody here's a slave. And I can honestly, _freely_, tell you that your half-eared friend hasn't been here."

The man's grin instantly vanished and was replaced with a snarl. "He's my nemesis, not my friend! And if you know nothing useful then get out!" he cried, banging on the table with both fists, "Get out! Get out! Get out!"

"I'm gone, I'm gone, I'm gone," said Dusty as he stood and backed away. Turning he met Milla's gaze. She raised an pointed index finger to her temple and twirled it around. Dusty nodded in silent agreement.

* * *

><p>The night wore on, and the beer flowed, and the crowd got louder and rowdier. Lachlan the bouncer was hauling a few drunks out to the hay pile by the stables. So he wasn't there to intercept the dwarf named Bigby when he made a grab for Milla's behind, just as she passed the table of the book-bearing man in black. As she dodged Bigby's lecherous hand, a sauce slathered drumstick slid off her tray, fell onto the stranger's table, rolled across his papers, and landed in his lap.<p>

"Ick! Ack! Iggles!" cried the man as he lept to his feet. "You ... you ... " he stammered with rage, his eyes wide, his mouth grimacing.

"Terribly sorry, sir," Milla unconvincingly apologized, as she gave Bigby a kick. "You want that free drink then?"

The stranger's jaw dropped. "You think THAT will make amends, you baatezu's bitch?! Look at my papers! Look at ME! I'm disgusting!"

Unsure how to respond to that, Milla managed an interrogative "Eww?"

The man gingerly began flicking the crusty bits of breading and sauce off his clothes, and Milla sighed. "Look," she said, "Room 3 is unoccupied. Second floor, middle of the hall. There's a full wash basin on the cabinet by the water closet. You can clean up there." She fished a brass key ring from her pocket and held it in her teeth. Then she nimbly unhooked a key with her free hand while still balancing her tray with the other.

The man glared at her, but took the key. Wordlessly he gathered up his books and papers and huffed out of the common room. Several fisherman immediately seated themselves at his table, and Milla finally smiled when she thought of the confrontation that was sure to ensue after the man returned.

Dusty, meanwhile, was circling on the opposite side of the room, trying to be heard over the din.

_ Oh there once was a witch from Glantri,  
>Who wore the nameless one's hand,<br>But she lost it one day in a belfry,  
>When a bat carried it out of the land.<em>

He stopped playing his guitar a moment, to reach up and catch a flying mug before it hit someone and started another brawl. The contents spilled and sloshed over his head, to the crowd's delight. Placing the mug on a table, he struggled on with the song.

_ So she wiggled her magical ass,  
>And made a new hand out of glass!<em>

When he got to this verse, Milla stood on a chair and wiggled artistically, eliciting whistles and shouts of approval.

_ The new hand could move on its own,  
>And crawl on its glass fingerbones,<br>As it went along,  
>Striding into this song,<br>Rode our hero, Jack Hoffer, who – _Hey!

Dusty was interrupted and forced to free his leg from Bigby's open-minded pinch. He made his escape and slid across a table.

_ Said the hand to the man in the wagon,  
>Beware! For my grip is as strong as a dragon!<br>Seizing it and his chance,  
>Jack dropped the hand in his pants,<br>And found it was no lie the the glass bones had been gabbin'._

He winced. The last line of that stanza still needed work. Then he had to pause yet again, gesturing a quick pair of cantrips to clean some of the sticky bits of flung food out of his guitar strings and wring the beer out of his hair.

_ But then came the glass graspers owner,  
>Who gasped to see her bones on Jack's b****,<br>I'm not just a witch,  
>I'm a lich, and a b****,<br>And with that, she turned Jack into – _BAM!

The door slammed open and the room went still. Standing in the doorway, silver armored, griffin-emblazoned, and golden haired, was the Lady Aleena Halaran. The crowd parted as she strode across the floor, and even Bigby's plastered paw didn't dare. She went to the posting board that covered the east wall. The Shady Dragon was the central hub for the network of adventurers and mercenaries that populated the wild hill country, and those seeking their services generally posted notice here, first.

+ Nymphs at eastwild grove got my boy. Need him back for the spring planting

+ Spring wyvern hunt, 500 crowns a head, Baron Kelvin sponsoring

+ Selenica-bound caravan convoy leaving Highforge in the next month (exact date undisclosed for security reasons) apply in Highforge

Aleena unrolled a large scroll, with WANTED inscribed along the top and an ugly leering face underneath. She drew a dagger and nailed up the parchment right in the center of the board. Turning to the crowd she spoke darkly and directly. "Jabulanth. Half elf. Spellcaster. Master of disguise. Missing half an ear." Then, after pausing for dramatic effect, "10,000 gold royals."

A few low whistles and a rumble of mutters went round the room. - Anybody seen this guy? - Aleena posted herself! - Ugly SOB – I wonder what he did? - and Dusty knew that baudy songs were no longer what people wanted to talk about. Aleena said no more, and strode out the door, closing it behind her.

The crowd, now greatly subdued, began to talk quietly in small groups, and several people crowded around the message board, vainly searching for useful information on the wanted poster. Dusty scanned the room for the angry customer who had been looking for a half eared half elf, but didn't see him anywhere. However, he noticed one man moving furtively toward the hallway to the guest rooms. He appeared entirely nondescript, and was shabbily dressed, except that he carried an expensive looking leather bag. A kind of bag, Dusty noted, that was common among urban gentry, but not often seen this far into the frontier.

Suspicious, the bard muttered a few arcane words, and in his dark pupils a faint bluish glow lit up. The warp of magic was now visible for a brief time, and he was able to see several auras glittering different colors around the room. The fiery evocation on the bartender's enchanted hammer, several minor outlines of different colors on the weapons and clothing of a select few of the drinkers, hmm... including black necromancy on Bigby's codpiece? -I don't even– Dusty started, but then, there! The telltale pink and yellow sparkle of illusion wrapped around the man with the expensive bag. Dusty just caught sight of the colors before he disappeared down the hall. -A magical disguise!- he thought excitedly.

Milla was taking advantage of the calm to gather up as many dishes as she could. Dusty touched her shoulder, "Five minutes," he whispered. Then he headed quickly down the hall and up the stairs, just in time to see the man disappear into room 2. Dusty slunk up to the door, and after glancing dramatically right and left dropped to his knees and peered through the keyhole. The rooms at the Shady Dragon were small and narrow, and Dusty could see most of the space inside. Everything was lit with a shadowy orange glow by a flickering oil lamp.

The man placed the bag on the bed and opened it up. He took out three small hourglasses and placed them on the endtable. The sand in each was a different color: brown, grey, and black. Then he removed a round of piece of dark fabric and held it up in front of him. Reaching into the cloth, like reaching into a hole, his whole arm vanished up to the shoulder. Then, in some impossible way, he pulled out a man by the collar from inside the piece of fabric. The man tumbled to the floor.

He gasped and wheezed as if he had been holding his breath, and Dusty could see he was both very old, and dressed in the robes of an adept of the Order of the Griffon. The cleric looked up from the floor at the nondescript stranger with puzzlement. But then the air shimmered and the shabbily dressed man vanished and was replaced, and there was no doubt, by the creepy half-eared half-elf on the wanted poster downstairs. "Jabulanth!" the old man uttered hoarsely.

"Still here," the half-elf said quietly in a high, whining voice. He was dressed in harlequin nightmare of patched pieces of fabric, every color and variety. On his forehead was tatooed a green dragon, partly obscured by his long, pale blonde hair. He paused a moment to inspect the saphire rings on his yellow-gloved hands.

The ugly face, smirked, becoming even uglier, and Jabulanth said, "Yes, I'm still here. But how much longer will you be?" The half-elf gestured to the three hourglasses on the endtable, "Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick ... tock ..." Then he squatted, leaning over and leering down at the weakened man on the floor. "Delamyne's shield, padre. I want it."

At this critical moment, the bookish stranger dressed in black emerged. Having finally groomed himself to his satisfaction, he exited room 3 into the hallway. He looked down at Dusty, crouched in front of the door to the next room. Dusty brought his index finger to lips, gesturing for silence. "Filthy pervert!" cried the stranger in black, "I might have known I would not be done dealing with your foul depravity!"

Dusty held up both hands, eyes pleading, and whispered loudly, "Hush ..."

"What are you blathering about?!" shouted the angry stranger. "You may as well confess before I have the guards execute you for this inexcusable -"

Dusty grabbed his own ear between two fingers, and with other made a gesture like scissors cutting it off. Then, wide-eyed and staring, pointed toward the door. The stranger was angry, but no idiot, and the object of his search was still on his mind. He understood right away, and gave Dusty a sudden and unexpectedly sturdy shove.

The bard stumbled, tripping on his own frayed, green cloak. He tumbled backwards, head over heels, then rolled down the stairs, crying "Haalp!"

The stranger paid no attention to Dusty's cry of distress, or the clattering as he bounced down the wood steps, or the sound of the crash immediately following, but bent to the door and peered into the keyhole.

"... so much easier, of course, to just kill you and interrogate your corpse. The dead don't lie." Jabulanth glanced at the hourglasses. "But it's not yet time, not yet time ..." The half-eared half-elf sighed. "So, if you're not ready to talk, then it's back in the hole."

"No, please," the old man pleaded. "I honestly don't know where the shield is."

Jabulanth began packing the hourglasses into his bag. "But," he said, "you know to who took it. My men brought back the pack of your messenger, but the shield was not with it."

At this news the priest groaned, and Jabulanth continued, "So we will continue on our way, until you, priest, are ready to confess." He held up the black, round piece of cloth over the prostrate cleric, and spoke a strange word. There was a rush of air, and a pop, and the priest vanished. Jabulanth packed the fabric into the bag.

Another few mystic words, and the illusion of a magically unmemorable appearance cloaked the half-elf again. He picked up the bag and started toward the door. The man in black cursed and muttered, "If only I had my weapons!" And then quickly spun about and disappeared again into room 3, quietly closing the door.

The disguised Jabulanth emerged with his bag, and saw Dusty, rubbing his head, struggling back up the stairs into the upper hall. Thinking quickly Dusty banged on the nearest door, "Don't throw me out baby, I won't do it again! I won't do the other one, either!" Jabulanth moved past him, without stopping, and hurried down the stairs. After a few moments, Dusty followed him.

Then the door to room 3 opened and the man in black stuck out his head and peered cautiously into the hallway. Seeing Jabulanth had gone, and Dusty hurrying down the stairs, he gathered up his books and moved to follow. As he passed the door the bard had banged upon, it opened and a surly trapper in flannel pajamas, blearily blinked at him. "The hell is your problem?" he growled.

"At least it's not the horror of waking up as you," the man in black sneered back. He turned to go, and so the trapper's meaty fist smashed into his ear instead of his nose. He bounced off the opposite wall, and his papers and tomes dropped and scattered. The trapper turned and slammed his door, leaving the battered traveler lying at the top of the stairs among his texts and gadgets.

* * *

><p>Down by the bar in the common room, the party was over and people were retiring to their rooms or heading outside to hit the road. Dusty quickly looked about, but didn't see Jabulanth's bag in anyone's hand. He hurried outside. He tried to remember how the half elf was disgused, but he just couldn't quite see the color of his clothes or skin or hair, or how his face looked, or ... "Ooooh," Dusty intoned, finally understanding the nature of the anonymizing enchantment. "Now I get it." He dodged among the departing walkers and riders looking for the telltale bag, but could not find it anywhere. "Dammit all," he sighed helplessly.<p>

The man in black clothes, now sporting what would soon be a black bruise on his cheek stumbled out of the main door, muttering to himself. "Assaulted! Insulted! Polluted! Revenge must be mine on this nest of-" He spied Dusty. "You there! Halt at once! Which way did he go?"

Dusty rolled his eyes, stepped over to the man and grabbed his shoulders, saying, "Can you keep it down? Just once? You want him to hear?"

"Unhand me minion! I fear no mere arcanist!" He jerked away from Dusty. "I see you have lost him, proving once again that everyone but myself is entirely unreliable." He set his books down a crate next to the stable wall, and inspected his fingernails for a moment. Then he paused and looked crafty. "He is after some kind of shield." the man suddenly confessed, and then glanced sneakily at Dusty, hoping for more information.

"Yeah," said Dusty, "Delamyne's shield."

Instantly excited to frenzy, the man almost leaped into Dusty and grabbed him by the shirtfront and shouted into his face, "The shield has a NAME?!"

"Hey, leggo," protested Dusty, trying to back away. "Yeah, Delamyne– she's a high-up in the Traladaran Church– gave it to the Order a few years back as a kind of a peace offering. There'd been some messy run-ins between the hotheads in the Order and some of the Traladarans who still aren't over the invasion. So she gave 'em a ceremonial shield like the ones the Order carries, 'cept it's a little bigger. It had a big red rose on it, instead of the griffins etched on the shields the Order usually carries. Aleena marched around with it for a year or so on holy days, trying to keep tensions down. I saw her with it when I wasn't much more than a kid. Dunno why this guy's after it, though. I don't think it's valuable, and his crazy doesn't seem like it's the religious kind of crazy."

"Silence minion! Did I ask for a history lesson?! It has a different appearance and it has a name! That's all I need."

At this he laughed maniacally, and Dusty was more then a little alarmed. But at the same time, the guy seemed like a character, and the bard compulsively felt the need to get his story. "So ... my names Dusty. Dusty Drifter." He held out his hand, and grinned widely. The man looked at Dusty's hand, but did not offer his own. He appeared slightly confused. "Um ... and you are?" Dusty asked, grinning again and trying to look friendly.

"Oh," the man sighed. "I see you feel the need for small talk when there is work to do. How pathetic. Fine. My name is Eben, I am here from the east, and I like puppies and spring flowers. Good enough?!"

"Almost," Dusty replied. "You were after this guy before the bounty was even posted. How come?"

"What bounty?" the man snapped, "What fantasy has your primitive mind conjured now?"

"Ah, nothing, nothing," Dusty said quickly, "But what's your beef with Jabulanth?"

"Oh, very well. My master, old and feeble fool that he is, was ready to finally retire. And then he would leave to me, his loyal apprentice, his library, his laboratory, and his not inconsiderable savings. I had only agreed to the humiliating term of servitude because, frankly, I thought he would be dead by now."

"That's horrible," said Dusty.

"Yes I know," moaned the man. "Unjust suffering at the hands of the foolish and the weak seems to be my lot in life. But shortly before I could finally collect my due, this Jabulanth shows up and kidnaps my master, and pillages his tower, taking almost everything of value. Including the will and legal papers leaving everything to me."

"You poor thing," said Dusty.

"Yes, yes, it is a tragic tale," moaned Eben. "So while I could thank that half eared interloper for eliminating the doddering obstacle and disappointment under whose yoke I have been cruelly lashed these past years, I must have the documents and equipment. Or else my heroic sacrifice will have been entirely in vain." At this Eben looked sideways and up, striking a pose of saintly endurance.

"How horrible someone else getting kidnapped must be for you," said Dusty.

"Your deep sorrow at my personal tragedy is as useless and unnecessary as you are. The only way to make it up to me is to help me get to this shield before Jabulanth so I can use it trap him and force him to return my rightful possesions." At this Eben pulled a large pack from behind the stables. "I have brought the equipment we will need, and stashed it here. Except for my books and a few tools too precious to let out of my sight. Now be patient, it will take me several minutes to construct and tune an appropriate tracking device." He began unpacking several bars and tubes and clinking contraptions. "I am loathe to build my plans on a foundation of fools, but you have actually seen this shield and I have not. Gather whatever meager possesions you have stolen or filched in your short and wasted life and return here. I will instruct you in how you will serve me by finding this Delamyne's shield."

Dusty the bard, maybe for the first time ever, didn't know what to say.

* * *

><p>"Oh, no, Drift, nonono," Milla moaned. "You are NOT leaving me with this mess." She leaned out the open top of of the split level door to the kitchen, with her hands braced on the closed lower half. "It takes two hours with two of us, and you're the one with the magic!"<p>

"But Milla," Dusty excitedly, "It's an adventure! And its starting from a meeting in an inn! It's an _archetypical_ adventure! How many opportunities do you think I'll get for an _archetypical_ adventure?"

"Well since you work in the inn that hosts the adventurer's guild, I would imagine more than one," Milla said wryly. "And speaking of work, Gwynne and Ariadne are already off somewhere. And Lachlan," she continued, glancing back in the direction of the gruff elven bouncer, "doesn't do dishes. What's so important you have to leave right now?" she protested, crossing her arms.

"I'll tell you when I get back, if you can lend me half an ear to listen. In fact, I might have half an ear myself!" Dusty said mysteriously.

"The BOUNTY?! Are you stupid?! This guy's a spellcaster, and probably a killer, and Aleena herself is looking for help to deal with him! This isn't a game, Dusty! Remember you went off, lovesick, after Lady Marilenev?"

"And I found her, didn't I?"

"Yes. Just in time to see her get arrested for impersonating the REAL Lady Marilenev! Who, as everybody knows, is a very old woman. Everybody except you and those foreign merchants that trollop was trying to con."

"I knew," Dusty frowned, "But I thought she was a long lost relative, or she was under a curse, or -"

"And you were lucky the real bounty hunters found her first, Drift. she woulda' slit your throat." Milla made a cut with her index finger across her neck.

"Don't be mad, Milla," Dusty pleaded. "I just gotta see what's gonna happen with this guy Eben and Jabulanth. Eben seems totally confident! He knows what he's doing."

"You mean that idiot with all the books?" replied Milla dubiously. "Drift, that's not confidence, that's bluster. People who know what they're doing don't make such a show of it. And besides, he can't be that competent if he's decided to bring you along."

"I can take care of myself," Dusty retorted, a little angrily. "If you're so worried why don't you come with? You never go anywhere! What's your plan, to stay here your whole life 'till you make head barkeeper?"

Dusty immediately regretted echoing Eben's unkind insult about Milla from earlier in the evening. But when he saw the distant look in her eyes, and the sad smile on her lips, he blushed and looked down, feeling as though he had said something much worse.

He and Milla were the youngest workers at the Shady Dragon, and they had bonded over this flimsy connection. But she was still six years older, and it was a difference Dusty had never registered until just now. Those six years seemed to be standing between the two of them in a way Dusty was suddenly and painfully aware of, but did not understand.

After the awkward moment finally passed, Milla sighed, "It's a fool's errand Drift. So I guess it's perfect for you." She turned and grabbed Dusty's pack from a shelf inside the back room, the one he kept ready in case an adventuring opportunity suddenly arose. Then she held it out for him at the door. "Go have your archetypical adventure. Find the treasure, kiss the girl, kill the monster."

"Actually," Dusty corrected, taking his pack, "It's kill the monster, then kiss the girl."

Milla grabbed his collar and jerked him closer, then planted a kiss right on his cheek, and gave him a gentle shove. "Sorry to ruin your archetype. Take care of yourself Drift."

"I'll be back soon," Dusty grinned, relieved she was no longer angry. But Milla wasn't wearing the impish smile he had always seemed to bring to her face before. She still had that sad expression, and her eyes were looking through him, focused on something far away. She turned again and went back into the inn.

For the second time that night, Dusty stood there, not knowing what to say.


	3. On The Road, Part 2

On The Road, Part 2

* * *

><p>"What's that do?" Dusty pointed his finger at the three colored glass buttons Eben was attaching to a black metal rod. The buttons were colored red, green, and yellow.<p>

Eben tried to stab Dusty's hand with a screwdriver. "Stop touching things! Stop crowding me! What's wrong with you?!"

"Sorry," Dusty replied, still peering over Eben's shoulder, watching him work.

He looked self-consciously around the yard between the inn and the stables, dimly lit by a few continual light globes. But the bar was closed, and the visitors who weren't spending the night had already left. Eben's black clothes made his body almost invisible, and he appeared as an annoyed, floating face over a tangle of metal bars and flickering lights. Dusty pulled his green cloak closer around him, only partly conscious of the night chill, as he waited excitedly.

Besides the metal rod, Eben had already assembled another device. It was a hemisphere of the same black metal, about a foot in diameter. Three matching glass buttons, also colored red, green, and yellow, were attached next to each other, along the edge of one side. On top was balanced a long, thin and flat metal bar. The bar was rounded at both ends, and was twisted just slightly. It was attached in the center to the top of the hemisphere.

"Here, put this on." Eben picked up the metal hemisphere. "But be careful, it's much more valuable then you are." He positioned the object on top of Dusty's head. It was a hat.

"I think it's a little small," complained Dusty. Eben smashed the hat down with a blow from his fist. "Ouch! I think you've cut off the blood flow to my brain!"

With a withering look, Eben replied, "I'm not concerned about that."

Then he attached two smaller rods to the end of the longer rod, the one with the colored buttons. It now looked like a letter 'Y'. He handed it to Dusty. "Hold the two small ends, and concentrate. It works like a dowsing rod."

Dusty grinned widely as the lights on the finding stick began to faintly flicker in the dark. "Hey, I think it's working!" He felt a breeze, and reached above his head with one hand. His fingers felt a bump, and he realized the metal strip on top of the hat had started to rapidly rotate.

"Of course its working what did you- Stop! Don't touch the propeller, you'll break it!" Eben cried.

"Propeller ..." Dusty echoed the magic word majestically. "What's that do?"

"It creates turbulence to dump entropy to cleanse the probability flux in the event matrix that- wait. Why am I talking to you? Why are you talking to me? Just be quiet and think about-" WHACK!

The finding stick had suddenly jerked into motion and snapped straight up, so the tip pointed above Dusty's head. The end of the stick had struck him in the face, hard. "My mose! I tink my mose is mleeding!" Dusty yelped in surprise.

Eben was furious. "You thought of the propeller, so it pointed at the propeller! Stop thinking without permission! Think of this Delamyne shield you claim to have seen!"

"Oh, mokay," Dusty sniffed. "I ged id, I ged id."

He tried to remember back to when he was younger. The time the festival procession had passed through the center of town. The silver armored knights of the Order of the Griffin, with griffin-emblazoned shields, shining as they marched down the road. And out in front, on a pure white stallion, the Lady Aleena Halaran, carrying the shield. A shield marked not by a griffin, but by a deep red rose. She had addressed the town, speaking of the shield as a gift from the native Church of Traladara, of the need for peace and cooperation between Thyatians and Traladarans.

He closed his eyes, and scrunched up is face, and tried to concentrate on the image of the round, red shield. He looked somewhat constipated. "I doan dink its working." He sniffed again through his smashed nose.

"We must be out of range," muttered Eben to himself. "Where did these Order of Griffin fools keep this Delamyne shield?"

Dusty thought a moment. "Well, Ayeena's da one who always carwied id. And shez uzually in Dreshold." He snorted, trying to clear his nasal passages.

"That's a days march!" moaned Eben. "Another wasted day! How long will I wander this abyss of misery?!" Then he stopped, inhaled and exhaled sharply, and said to himself, "I will not stop now, not when I am this close." He strode purposefully to his huge, overloaded pack, and picked it up with a grunt. "Turn around and put this on," he commanded.

Dusty shrugged his own small bag to one shoulder, and trepedatiously put his arms through the straps of the bulging backpack. Eben let go, and Dusty fell onto one knee to avoid toppling over. "Wat in da nine 'ells is in dis?!" he yelled.

"Hmm," replied Eben thoughtfully, "books, metal bars, a portable alchemy lab, maps and starcharts, laboratory samples, food and drink, spare clothes, ... oh, and my plate armor."

"Blate armor?!" Dusty yelled again.

"Yes," Eben stated, "exquisitely infused by my own hand. You should feel honored with the privilege of me allowing you to carry it. Now, march minion! To Threshold!" Eben turned and began quickly walking towards the north road.

Dusty did not feel honored. Dusty was ready to drop Eben's bag in the dirt and walk back to the mountain of dishes waiting in the kitchen. But then he thought of Milla, and the sad, strange look she had given him. "Aw man," he grumbled under his breath, "I can't quit after ten minutes." He huffed after the man in black, bent under the weight of the pack, trying very hard NOT to concentrate on where-oh-where Eben's butt might be.

* * *

><p>After an hour, Dusty's speed had noticeably slowed. After two, he ground to a halt. Dropping to a squat, he let the weight of the pack roll him backwards, until he arched over the overloaded bag. His limbs sprawled in all directions, and he let the finding stick drop from his hand. As soon as he let go, the propeller began to turn slower and slower, and then it stopped.<p>

Eben was near hysterics, shouting and wildly gesticulating and kicking Dusty's limp legs. But the bard just lay there, breathing heavily, looking up at the star-splattered country sky.

Realizing he was being ignored, and rather then concede authority, Eben huffed that he would allow a short rest to account for Dusty's unforgivable frailty. "But," he warned, "we will have to travel faster to make up for this wasted time." He looked unsure what to do while Dusty caught his breath, so he paced back and forth for a minute. Then he went over and sat against a large rock outcropping by the roadside. A minute after that, he began to snore.

Oh-so-carefully removing his arms from Eben's pack, Dusty quietly snuck away from the slumbering taskmaster. He brought the finding stick with him, and when he touched it the propeller began to spin again.

He squinted curiously at the strange object and its colored buttons glinting in the starlight. It was different from any kind of magic item Dusty had seen, or even read about. Except gnomes. Stuff like this was in stories about gnomes, but Eben was nothing like a gnome in height or in temperament. Still, maybe he learned how to make this from gnomes?

When Dusty began thinking about the sleeping man in black, the colored buttons

flickered to life, and the propeller began whirling faster and faster, _whup whup whup_, and the stick jumped up in the air. It was pointing back up the road, straight to Eben. Dusty laughed, and his exhaustion was washed away by wonder and curiosity. -_ At least I know it works_ - he thought.

He tried to think of something else, something further away. Something in the inn, maybe? Something unique ... the puppet he had made! He concentrated, scrunching his face up, and the stick jerked and pulled him back around, pointing in the direction from which they had come.

Dusty decided to try again for the rose shield of Delamyne. - _I__f there's no response, I'll know its more then a two hour walk from here_ - he deduced. But when his eyes closed, and his face tightened with focus, and he called up the image of Lady Halaran carrying the shield, the lights flared almost at once. It was only the red and yellow lights, the green button remained dark, but Dusty was too excited to notice. The stick jerked up and aimed towards the horizon, where the road disappeared in the trees. Moving through the shadows Dusty could torches following the road, coming towards him very fast.

"Eben!" Dusty shouted, "Eben, wake up!" He ran towards the slumped man in black shouting.

With a cough and a snort Eben came to. "What! What's happening!" He stood up and looked around angrily as Dusty ran up to him, the lights on the stick and on the hat flickering in the dark. "You let me fall asleep! You did that on purpose! Probably some arcane trick to shirk you duties, you sniveling, cowardly-"

"Eben, your stick found the shield!" Dusty cried excitedly.

"Where? Where?!" Eben yelled, looking around wildly.

Dusty pointed down the road, in the direction from which they had come, at the torchlights quickly approaching. "It's coming to us!"

Eben stared only a moment, then acted decisively. He grabbed Dusty's cloak and yanked. Choking and gasping and grabbing at the clasp, the bard was pulled behind the rocks Eben had just been leaning against. "It must be Jabulanth! He's found the shield before us! He's coming this way! Hide you fool!"

He crouched behind the rock and jerked Dusty down to the ground beside him. As the bard rolled over and tried to find his feet and free his neck from the cloak, Eben muttered, "I'll need my adamantite calipers to ready some mechanical spinnerets to dismount him as he passes. Get them out of the left side of my- Oh no! You reprobate! You've left my equipment lying in the middle of the road!" And he finally stopped pulling Dusty by the cloak, and started shoving him the other way, instead, back into the road. "Get my pack! Hurry!"

His heart racing, his propeller spinning, Dusty raced to the overloaded pack. He sat down and put his arms throught the straps. Ahead of him he could not only see the torches brightening, but also hear the clatter of horseshoes on the cobblestone road. He leaned forward straining to stand, but the pack was too heavy. He needed someone to pull him up, or something to hold onto, but it was too late, and the horses were upon him, and he curled into a ball and covered his face with hands and yelled, "Ahhhhhh!"

"Halt, HALT!" Dusty heard a woman's voice yell. The lead horse reared up in front of him, almost kicking him in the head. The other riders jerked the reigns and scattered to the left and to the right, the horses whinnying complaint. Dusty slowly spread the fingers covering his eyes, and, peering between them, he saw a white stallion. Seated on it, looking straight at him, was not Jabulanth, but the silver armored, griffin-emblazoned Lady Aleena Halaran.

She spoke in what Dusty recognized as the gnomish language, _"Just because you have nightvision, little one, doesn't mean the rest of us can see you in the dark without a torch!_"

"I'm not a gnome," Dusty replied in the common tongue, sheepishly. He unfolded his arms and legs. "I was just, um ... sitting ..." He trailed off. On his head the propeller still spun, _whup whup whup_.

Aleena's mouth opened, then closed, as she gathered her thoughts. Finally she asked firmly, "First, are you alright?" Dusty nodded wordlessly. "Then can you explain why you are sitting here, in the middle of the road, in the middle of the night, wearing ... whatever is on your head?"

"IMBECILE!" Eben shouted, as he hurdled the rocks he had been hiding behind, and marched on Dusty while shaking his fists in rage. "You didn't find the shield, you found the person you saw holding the shield! Were all the lights on?! Why did you think there were THREE lights?! Why can't you understand anything!?"

"Because you never EXPLAIN anything!" Dusty shouted back, still sitting in the road.

"We'll somebody better start explaining," Aleena replied, "because the only reason I can come up with for this bizarre setup is that it's some kind of failed ambush." Her hand dropped to her large, metal mace. "And I don't deal lightly with bandits." The horsemen had rounded back, and formed a menacing circle around Dusty and Eben.

Then she frowned. "Wait, did you say you were looking for a shield?"

"Yeah," sighed Dusty, "Delamyne's shield."

"Silence, fool!" Eben growled. "Information is currency."

He turned and glared at Aleena. "Begone, peasant, you have no authority to interfere in my personal affairs. Now, run along before I complain to your superior about how you almost ran over my manservant." He waved her away dismissively with single hand.

"Well that superior would be my uncle, the baron," Aleena replied coolly. "And I have full authority to act in his name, and the power to enforce the laws of the realm as I see fit, granted to the Order by the king himself."

But Eben was not intimidated. "Torture my minion all you like, nepotist and cultist, we will tell you nothing."

Aleena was used to dealing with crazy adventurers, and responded to this disrespectful display of insolence with a wry smile. But the knights on the horses around her exchanged angry glances and their hands dropped to their weapons.

"Wait," pleaded Dusty, "Wait! Eben, this isn't a nep-, well she's not a cultist! This is Aleena- I mean this is Lady Halaran. She's a hero."

He looked at Aleena as sincerely as he could. "We're looking for Delamyne's shield because we think this Jabulanth guy is after it too."

Eben clapped his hand to his forehead, and shook his head. "I am, as always, thwarted by incompetent assistants. If only there had been time to finish my private army of homunculi before the robbery."

"Jabulanth was at the inn," Dusty continued. "He was in the tavern when you came in and posted the 10,000 royal bounty."

"WHAT!" cried Eben and Aleena simultaneously. "You never told me there was a bounty!" Eben shouted angrily, as Aleena said thoughtfully, "His illusions are powerful, but they make him overconfident."

Aleena looked at Dusty, ignoring Eben. "What else happened? How did you know it was the quarry? Leave out nothing!"

"Well, I saw him sneaking off when you left, so I followed him," Dusty replied. He turned his head trying to remember. "He went into one of the back rooms and he -he was using magic- pulled this old guy out of a piece of fabric."

"What did this 'old guy' look like?" Aleena asked excitedly.

"I'll show you," Dusty replied. He pulled a bit of fleece out of his pocket, and with a word and a gesture, a ghostly image of the room at the Shady Dragon materialized at the side of the dark highway. At the center of the unmoving image, an unmoving Jabulanth, in his clownish patchwork outfit, leered at the old man on the floor.

"That's Friar Fergus!" Aleena cried with recognition. "He sent us a warning from the mountain sanctuary. But we got the warning too late."

"Too late for what?" Eben started to ask.

But Dusty interrupted, "Hey, is that the Friar Fergus who -"

"Yes," Aleena smiled, "He was the cook at the Shady Dragon for several years. He helped me keep an eye out for new recruits to the Order. And for strangers that looked like trouble."

"Too late for WHAT?" Eben impatiently repeated.

The men on their horses looked nervous and uncomfortable. Even Aleena looked down as she spoke quietly, "There have been ... incidents at a few of our outlying posts. Symptoms of madness or dementia, then the clerics and adepts vanish without a trace. Anyone else working there is found murdered. Gruesomely murdered and partially ... eaten."

Dusty gulped as Aleena continued, "When we received Fergus' warning, about people walking in trances, as though sleepwalking; talking gibberish, and not remembering it; I knew it was happening again. He said in the message he was afraid that Delamyne's shield was being targeted for destruction. The shield was missing when I got to the monastery, but I honestly thought it was just paranoia and the madness was affecting him as well. I supposed Fergus himself had hidden the shield somewhere. But now, your clever spying has revealed that the missing item is an important clue. Good work!"

Dusty blushed. Aleena reached down and grabbed the top the giant backpack. Then, with only one arm, she lifted the pack, and a dangling Dusty along with it. She set him down on his own two feet. "Can you walk with that?"

Dusty smiled confidently, wincing only a little as she let the weight settle back onto him. "Oh sure, no prob."

"Perhaps the shield is cursed," mused Eben. "Perhaps this Delamyne was cleverly trying to destroy you, not buy you off."

Aleena frowned. "I don't think so. See, it's not just at our outposts that these incidents have been happening. Spellcasters have been disappearing under strange circumstances in many places."

Then griffin-emblazoned knight raised her torch. "He was at the Shady Dragon not two hours ago! Spread out, but don't engage the quarry alone! He has taken too many lives already!" And with battle cries and a clatter of hooves on stone, the horsemen and the golden haired Aleena scattered down the road and into the wild.

* * *

><p><em> Grateful Aleena smiled at Dusty the Brave,<em>

_ How many lives did our great hero save?_

"By Hel's two faces, can you please shut yours?!"

Dusty improvised a new song as Eben clanked along the road, rolling his eyes. The man in black clothes was now wearing the black plate mail that had been inside his pack. Under Dusty's persistent pestering about his constructions, Eben had casually mentioned that one of the infusions he had put into his armor made it weightless when worn, but not while carried. Outraged, Dusty promptly dropped the pack and dumped out the armor and tried to put it on himself. Angrily preempting him, Eben strapped on the black metal suit over his black clothes and continued marching with a black scowl on his face. The bard followed cheerfully straining under a heavy, but no longer crushingly heavy load.

"Hey Eben," Dusty said. "You got a last name?"

"Black." Eben grumbled.

Dusty frowned. "But 'Eben', isn't that a Thothian word for black? So your name is blackblack? Were your parents blind, or something?"

"It is what I have allowed you to call me." Eben snarled impatiently.

"So then," Dusty mused, "are you from Thothia? Originally, I mean?"

"No," Eben growled dangerously, "And while I hate small talk less then listening to you sing, I see no reason why we cannot continue without me being subjected to either."

Dusty was quiet for awhile, but then started "Hey, Eben-"

"Did you not understand what I just said?! Must I say it in Thothian?!" Eben shouted with frustration.

"Somebody's coming," Dusty replied, pointing up the road.

There was indeed a single torchlight bobbing some distance away, coming toward them slowly.

"Quiet! It might be Jabulanth!" Eben frowned and muttered. "There's no point in setting up an ambush while I'm wearing this." He looked over at the propeller hatted bard. "We'll just have to act inconspicuous and surprise him when he passes."

"Is he even carrying an expensive leather bag?" asked Dusty.

"I can't see from here, but we take no chances! Ready your feeble arcana and prepare to sacrifice yourself in my defense!" Eben cried excitedly.

"But how do you know it's Jabulanth?" Dusty protested. "We can't attack first, and ask questions later!"

"Of course we can!" Eben retorted. "Even if it's not my nemesis, he may have useful information." He smiled wickedly underneath his metal helmet. "And fear is the best tool to extract truth."

Dusty felt like events were spiraling out of control. "Wait, Eben, just wait a minute. Lemmee use the finding stick and see if it's him."

Dusty quickly waved the stick in the air, and screwed up his face in concentration, trying to visualize the bag he saw Jabulanth carry at the inn. A thrill of fear and amazement rushed through him as the stick pointed straight to the oncoming torchbearer. All three lights were flickering frantically. "It's him Eben, you were right!"

"Of course I am, fool! Now be quiet and act casual!" the black armored figure hissed at the wide eyed bard with the spinning hat blinking with colored lights.

Dusty looked up the road at the oncoming torch bearer, and his heart began to race. How to act cool? He thought of Lachlan, the laconic bouncer at the Shady Dragon. The big elf who slouched by the door, scanning the room fearlessly with a cool stare. Dusty decided that was the look to go for, but instead of bored and dangerous he appeared more squinty and hunchbacked.

The stranger drew closer, and Dusty could now see he was a poorly dressed human, with dark hair, a brown tunic and torn pants. He was carrying the bag, and Dusty tried not to stare at it. -_Wait_- he thought - _this guy has dark brown hair. I can remember the hair color! Jabulanth's magic disguise kept me from remembering any details! _-

Dusty elbowed Eben, but the armored figure didn't notice or didn't care to notice. "Eben," Dusty hissed, "I don't think this is him!"

It was too late for Eben to reply as the man carrying the leather bag was nearly upon them. He passed to the side. Way, way to the side, and eyed the black figure nervously. Then he noticed Dusty's odd headgear, and just looked confused. He gave the bard a deferential nod, which Dusty met with his squinty, slouchy bouncer-stare.

The moment the traveler passed, and his back was turned to them, Eben spun around. He raised one arm, and twisted a knob on his wrist with the other. Out of his shoulder an array of metal rods and panels noisely extruded, and assembled automatically into a wicked-looking crossbow. The stranger turned around at the noise, and his eyes went wide in terror when he saw the black bladed arrows, glinting in the torchlight, pointed straight at him. Eben shouted "GIVE ME BACK MY HALF-FORMED HOMONCULI, YOU DEPRAVED HALF-EARED LUNATIC!"

"Sleep!" Dusty sang the arcane word. The stranger's terrified eyes rolled up in his head, and he crumpled to the side of the highway. A moment later, creaking loudly, Eben's armor bent back at the knees and he, too, went down with a loud crash. Dusty yawned, "Oh, no," he thought, "I was too cloooooose..." and the bard toppled into a third, uncomfortable looking tangle of limbs. The three men lay there, snoring in the highway, in the quiet of the moonless, starlit night.

* * *

><p><em>Seeing only a bright colored blur, Dusty heard a high, whiny voice. "The center has come undone."<em>

_Then he heard a woman giggle, "Oh Jabby, I knew you'd break him eventually."_

_Dusty felt something tickle his nose, and his eyes started to focus. Sawdust was running from his forehead down over his face. He could look around, but not move his neck. In front of him was a curtain. No, it was a bed cover. From his cot at the inn. He saw his dismembered arm under the bed, and a gigantic hand reached down and picked it up. It was Milla, towering over the sawdust head he had somehow turned into._

_Milla giggled again. "It's too bad you didn't let me try my hand with him." She held up her hand, and it was made of glass._

_Now he heard Jabulanth giggle evilly, and reply, "You can still try it on me, my dear." Then his foot stepped in front of Dusty, and he leaned over the bed, kissing Milla passionately._

_Dusty could not shut his eyes, or scream, or even scratch his tickled nose. He just thought over and over -It's only a dream, it's only dream. No, it's a damn nightmare!-_

_Then Milla came up for air, and looked down at the puppet head, and frowned. "I feel like it's watching us." She sat up and raised her foot. Dusty couldn't move or cry out as the foot came down and -_

- smashed him in the side of the head. "Ow, hey, what?!" Dusty cried. He rolled over and away, slipping his arms out of Eben's heavy backpack, and tried to get his feet under him. But the black metal boot was back. This time, it kicked him hard in the butt, and he went sprawling into the ditch along the roadside. "Are you trying to kill me?!" Dusty shouted.

"Isn't that my line?!" Eben screamed with rage, stomping after the bard. "Do you know how long I've been trying to catch that half-eared bastard, and when he was finally in my grasp-"

Dusty scrambled away from Eben. "It wasn't him! It wasn't Jabulanth! I was trying to stop you from shooting an innocent man!"

"Of course it was him! It was another disguise!" Eben pressed the button on his wrist, and the crossbow swiveled around to point at Dusty. "Thanks to you I have an extra arrow I need to use, don't I?"

Genuinely afraid, Dusty raised his hands in surrender, and stared at the glittering metal arrowhead. Keeping his hands up, he pointed sideways with one finger towards the road and said with a shaky voice, "If it was him, then why'd he leave the bag?"

Eben's helmeted head turned and sitting in the roadway on it's side was the mysterious leather case. The man who had carried it was nowhere in sight. Eben raised a black, gauntleted hand and pointed at Dusty. "You don't move. You stay right there." Dusty nodded obsequiously, and Eben turned and clanked over to the bag. Kneeling down, he opened it up.

Eben peered inside, and then lifted the circle of black fabric out of the bag. He looked inside again, and felt around with his other hand, but there was nothing else. The hourglasses, and anything that the case had earlier contained at the inn, were gone.

Eben spoke the command word he had heard Jabulanth speak back at the Shady Dragon, and with the faintest of shimmers the fabric darkened and homogenized into a shiny, liquid surface. He reached in with his gloved hand, felt around a moment, and yanked Friar Fergus out of Jabulanth's portable hole.

Fergus tumbled, coughing and gasping, to the ground.

"Ohmygosh!" cried Dusty, and, ignoring Eben's orders, he dashed to the side of the old man. Dusty put one arm on the man's shoulder and pleaded, "Eben, help me get him up!"

But Eben didn't hear. He had taken his arm out of the portable hole and stuck his entire head inside. The black fabric was camouflaged by the black metal, which now stood in the road like a headless armor golem.

Dusty went back and grabbed a waterskin out of Eben's discarded pack. He offered it to Friar Fergus who drank greedily. Finally catching his breath, the old man managed to croak, "Thank you, stranger. But what happened, where is Jabulath?"

"It, uh, looks like we chased him off, master Fergus." Dusty improvised. "I'm Dusty and that's Eben."

Eben pulled his helmeted head out of the hole. "This is wonderful! I've schemed for so long, wishing for an extra-dimensional space of my very own!" Through the eye slit in the helmet, his crinkled eyes looked happy enough to cry. "Just my tiny piece of the astral dream. At last!" Then he stuck his head back inside the fabric portal.

Fergus looked confused and disoriented by Eben's speech, and Dusty tried to change the subject to something he could focus on. "So, why is Jabulanth after Delamyne's shield?"

"Oh, you know about that?" Friar Fergus asked with surprise, slowly getting to his feet.

"Yeah, Aleena- I mean Lady Halaran told us about it. She said she got your warning but not the shield."

"Oh, dear," Fergus sighed. He took another drink from Dusty's waterskin. "I don't know what he wants with it. I can't even imagine what he _might_ want with it. It was only a political symbol, and has no enchantments."

The priest looked hard at Dusty. "I suppose, since Aleena has trusted you, I can as well. And you, at least, seem like a nice young man." He eyed the headless armor warily, as it spun about to give Eben a full view of his new astral empire. "I had noticed strange behavior among the adepts at the sanctuary. I was writing to ask for assistance from our monastery in Threshold, when a raven landed in my window, and began to talk, claiming a plot was under way to destroy the shield."

"Wow, really?" Dusty was impressed.

"Animal messengers are not that uncommon," smiled Fergus. "But who sent this one, I couldn't say." He sighed and looked sad. "I should have acted sooner, but I wanted to wait until I had more information."

Eben popped his head out again, but this time his eyes looked anything but happy. "You disgusting old man!" he shouted.

Fergus looked confused, but then his face changed as if he remembered something, and turned red. "Well, I was in there for a very long time, you see."

"Well how is that my problem?" Eben sputtered, exasperated. "And what am I supposed to do? Hire some fifth dimensional githyanki maid service?" He stomped over to his backpack, set down the portable hole, and dug out some wire and metal objects. Quickly and expertly bending and joining them, he muttered, "I suppose some mechanical dung beetles will have to do. Then I can scrub the place with a mop of cure disease."

Fergus looked very uncomfortable, and Dusty tried again to change the subject. "What happened to the shield? Where is it now?"

"Oh," Fergus replied, distracted. "It was stolen. By the messenger who carries our correspondence in the winter months, when the roads are icy. When I awoke it had vanished, and from my window I could see the man carrying it brazenly away." The priest looked down darkly. "Before Jabulanth arrived and imprisoned me, I summoned a pack of wolves and sent them after the thief. I was still worried about the security at the sanctuary, so I ordered my animals to take it to the blue pine grove at Silver Lake if anything happened."

"So that's where the shield is? At the blue pine grove?" asked Dusty.

"I don't know that for certain. Jabulanth gloated that he had intercepted the messenger, but he's still looking for the shield. So I can only hope that my wolves have brought it to Silver Lake."

Then Fergus raised to hand to his neck, and touched a metal collar inscribed with raggedly scratched glyphs. His hand jerked back, as though the band was burning hot. "I need to get this off. It's how Jabulanth kept me from using my magic."

"Oh, sure." Dusty replied. But before he could ask how, the sound of slow, sarcastic applause broke the stillness of the quiet country night.

It also broke the invisibility sphere cloaking the clapping half-eared half-elf and a half dozen dangerous looking men in leather armor, armed with spiked clubs and rusty short swords. The small band of mercenaries had been there, listening to everything, just to the side of the road.

"It took you long enough. I thought I was going to have to free him myself and drop him in your lap." Jabulanth smirked and his ugly face leered at Dusty in the starlight.

Besides the half-elf, in his multicolored outfit, Dusty recognized among the men the face of the shabby man with the bag, the one he had stopped Eben from shooting. "Nice performance," the bard sincerely complimented.

The thug's face brightened. "Hey, thanks! Good to be appreciated."

"Oh, shut up!" Jabulath commanded. "Just tie them up, and be quick about it." He shook his head and muttered with exasperation, "Actors."


	4. On The Road, Part 3

On The Road, Part 3

* * *

><p>"Good help is so hard to find." Eben said sarcastically.<p>

"Me?! Who didn't even notice he was getting captured because he was too busy cleaning the astral plane with a magic mop?!" Dusty retorted.

The ruffians looked at each other and raised their eyebrows. "Hey boss," said one, "does that mean we get to roll bones for the mop?"

Jabulanth did not reply, but gave him a look of such contempt that he quickly turned away and continued binding the three prisoners.

The mercenaries had marched their prisoners over a rise, so they were no longer visible from the road. Two of them carefully tied the hands of the three prisoners. Then they bound the three captives back to back, so they were facing away from each other in a circle. Eben's helmet and Dusty's propeller hat were taken and dropped into a pile of books and parts that had been poured out of the giant backpack.

The half-elf finished emptying the side pockets of the last of Eben's carefully ordered possessions, flipping through the books and tossing them aside on the ground. Eben glared at him with barely controlled fury. Jabulanth studied some of the metal parts, but then dropped them too. "Junk." he muttered.

Before Eben could explode with insults, one of the bandits gagged him. "At last," Jabulanth sighed. "I had to make sure they didn't cast any spells before I leave you lot to kill them."

One bandit scratched his head. "But boss, if they're spellcasters, we're not supposed to kill 'em. You know what the rules are and-"

"Stop thinking." Jabulanth interrupted. "You are Hounds of the Iron Ring. Your job is to run the prey down and kill it or capture it when so ordered. Believe me, this operation comes from a much higher authority then your so-called slave masters." He giggled. "Or rather, a much _lower_ authority."

Jabulanth produced the three hourglasses Dusty had seen him use at the Shady Dragon. He circled the three gagged prisoners standing together and tied back-to-back. In front of each man, he placed a single timepiece. "You will kill them. When the time is right."

Dusty looked down at the brown sand quickly pouring through the narrow glass at his feet. Then he noticed something moving next to it. An animate bundle of wires and buttons. It was one of Eben's mechanical beetles.

"And now I can bring to an end this little distraction." He put his face close to Friar Fergus' face. "I'm sorry I can't stay with you to the end, dear father, but you've wasted so much of my time already. I wish I had the time to properly avenge the time that you have caused me to waste." He gave the metal collar restraining the priest's powers a flick with his fingers.

Friar Fergus, gagged just like Eben and Dusty could say nothing, but looked at the mad killer before him with resigned sadness.

Annoyed at the priest's subdued reaction, Jabulanth snapped at the band of thugs, "Remember! Kill them the moment the sand runs out. Not a moment before, and not a moment later!" He twisted a silver ring he wore on his finger and the air in front of him wavered, and then he vanished. But Dusty could hear his footsteps moving to the east, headed toward Silver Lake.

Dusty looked down and saw the shiny metal beetle had moved closer, and was almost to his foot. He needed to get Eben's attention.

The iron ring hounds began to talk among themselves:

"So let's just kill 'em now and get out of here."

"Here now, we ain't killin' 'em 'till 'ol Jabby's glasses is empty. You knows what'll happen if he finds we jumped the mark."

"Aw, he ain't gonna know. 'Sides, I want to kill one with the mop now, see what it does."

"Don't be daft. That mop don't do nothin'. And even if it did, you wanna be known as that guy what fights with a mop?"

While they were arguing, Dusty banged his head sideways on Eben's shoulder. Eben was still in his plate mail, but his helmet had been removed. He turned his gagged head and glared at Dusty who tried to nod down at the beetle. Eben saw it, and his expression turned crafty and he raised one eyebrow.

The bandits continued to argue:

"I'd use it if was a _vorpal_ mop!"

"A vorpal mop? You taken' one to many blows to the noggin, I reckon. Moppin' people's heads off right and left, huh? In a pretty little maid's dress?"

"He'd wear a maid's dress all by itself, if it was enchanted, I guess."

"He'd wear a dress even if it _weren't_ enchanted!"

The bandits broke out in gaffaws, and the first bandit threw the first punch. While they were brawling Eben took advantage of the distraction to squat down, pulling Dusty and Fergus with him.

The strange, unwieldy human tripod crabwalked a few feet until the beetle was in the middle, under their bound hands. Eben managed to pinch the tiny artificial insect between two gauntleted fingers, and there was a buzzing hum as green, glowing energy built up.

Eben then tried awkwardly to flick the beetle up into the tangle of knots binding their arms together and to each other, but Dusty had twisted his head around to see what was happening. The beetle's metal legs caught in his light brown hair and became hopelessly entangled. Eben's eyebrows twisted in anger and disbelief as he watched their only chance of escape twisting uselessly on the bard's unkempt head.

The metal contraption crawling on his scalp tickled tremendously, and Dusty couldn't help but snort muffled laughter through his gag.

"Hey, hey, what you lot up to?" A Hound cried, and the brawl promptly came to a halt. Dusty, Eben and Fergus were hauled back up to their feet and one of the mercenaries checked the knots. "Still looks tight," he muttered suspiciously.

"Well well, boys, looks like its moppin' time!" cried second man as he pointed to Dusty's hourglass. Everyone looked down just in time to see the last bit of sand trickle through the narrow glass neck.

"Awright!" the first bandit cheered. He picked up Eben's mop. It was black, like everything Eben made, with metal pole and a woolen head. The bandit held it out and looked it, his head cocked to one side, not sure what do.

"Well go on, hit him!" the other bandits encouraged, snickering.

Dusty looked at the bandit nervously and tried to protest despite his gag, "MMMMGGG!"

But the mercenary with the mop only grinned at him. Then he shrugged, raised the mop over his head, like a two-handed greatsword, and slammed it down on Dusty's head.

The bard, being in good health, did not trigger the mop's sanitizing infusion. But the tiny metal beetle was crushed under the metal pole and it exploded in a shower of fiery green sparks. "I told you! I told you it was a magic mop!" shouted the wielder, triumphantly.

The other bandits, who had expected a dud, gaped in amazement as sizzling green filaments snapped, crackled, and popped, showering over the three prisoners. And wherever the bits of beetle landed, the effect of Eben's knock infusion took hold. The knotted ropes untangled in a sudden burst, the cloth gags unwound, Dusty's belt came undone, and the metal collar around Friar Fergus' neck clicked open and fell to the ground.

Dusty staggered backward, still dazed by the blow to the head. His eyes were not quite aimed in the the same direction. As the gag fell from his mouth he smiled at the green sparkles and said, "Look! Stars!" Then he tipped over, and rolled into the grass.

Eben immediately turned knobs and pushed buttons, and his shoulder mounted crossbow began to assemble itself.

Friar Fergus' bald head began to sprout a billowing mane of golden hair. His bent and aged frame surged with muscles, his mouth lengthened into a snout, and his hands inflated into paws. A fine tawny fur spread over his body, down to the tip of his newly sprouted tail. And then Fergus the lion turned to the shocked and fear-frozen thugs of the iron ring and pounced.

The mighty cat crashed into the crew of cutthroats, and they sprawled in all directions, like nine-pins. One of them managed to draw a crossbow and aim it at the feline Fergus, but with the push of a button, Eben impaled the shooter's shoulder with an arrow of his own. The infusion in the arrow activated and numbing ice spread out of the wound. The bandit dropped his weapon and cried out in pain.

Eben reloaded and aimed another bolt, as Fergus clubbed one bandit with his paw, and crunched another thug's leg in his jaws. One of them tried to slink around behind Eben, but with a flick of his wrist a metal rod slid out of his armored forearm and into his hand.

With a single quick command word a blast of colored light lit up the night and engulfed the unlucky rogue. He fell to the ground clutching at his blinded eyes. At the same time Eben's crossbow swiveled and shot the last bandit still standing in the knee. He fell defeated, clutching his leg and moaning in agony.

Dusty rubbed his eyes, still dazed, and mumbled "Wha hoppen?" He slowly stood up, covered in grass and dirt, and took in his surroundings.

He watched, confused, as Eben picked up the mop, then detatched and discarded the head. He went to the pile of parts Jabulanth had dumped by the roadside and selected a metal spike. After attatching it the metal pole that had held the mop, he raised it with a two hand grip, point down, over one of the incapacitated bandits.

"Wait Eben," cried Dusty, "You can't just murder a helpless man!"

Eben let go the spear with one hand and placed his fingers on his temple, his eyes closed and a pained expression on his face. "Of course I can!" he growled with increasing volume and frustration. "What exactly did you think the point of rendering him helpless WAS?!"

Dusty stared at Fergus, who was pinning two bandits under his massive paws. and asked, "Is the lion on our side?"

"Yes," snapped Eben, impatiently, "But what do you plan on doing with them then? Leave them to go murder and kidnap some more? Fine by me. Or stay here and guard them if you want, but I'm leaving to get Jabulanth."

"What about the bag?" asked Dusty. And he pointed to Jabulanth's bag, sitting next to the wounded bandits. "Couldn't we stick them where Fergus was imprisoned?"

"What? And risk another accident? Oh no, that space is MINE." Eben crossed his arms. Then a crafty gleam appeared in his eye, and he looked at his fingernails. "Unless ... you want to _rent_ the space..."

"Uh, sure, okay." Dusty agreed, confusedly.

"With interest, of course, since you're not paying me now?" Eben innocently asked.

"Fine, whatever." Dusty muttered, annoyed.

Eben cackled, "Fine then, fine. I don't mind a good deed as long as the interest compounds continuously." He paused and looked thoughtful, and Dusty could almost see him calculating his profit in his head.

Finally satisfied with his calculation, Eben fetched the bag, and one by one,captured each wounded bandit inside the portable hole. He stuffed the black fabric into a compartment in his armor.

Then Fergus roared and looked back them. The great cat started bounding east.

"C'mon Eben, it's this way! There's an old dry sandstone creek bed that runs up to Silver Lake in the hills. It only fills up when it rains." Dusty pointed east at a thin yellow ribbon winding it's way up into the hill country.

Eben gathered his helmet, looked forlornly at his scattered things and promised them, "I'll be back soon." Then the metal-plated man followed the grass-covered bard chasing after the lion toward the yellow creek road.

* * *

><p>"Wow," Dusty gaped, looking at the trees. "This must be blue pine grove." The small copse of pine along the north shore of Silver Lake wasn't composed of the scruffy mountain conifers with the blue tinted cones that Dusty was expecting. The needles on the trees themselves were actually blue. A deep flurescent blue. In the light of the glittering stars, the trees almost appeared to glow. He stood between the trees and the lake, gazing up in wonder.<p>

Eben, on the other hand, was unimpressed. He began trampling and breaking his way through the lower branches. "We don't even know if we got here too late! What if Jabulanth has taken the shield and gone? How will I find him now?" he raged.

"I think if a lion was fighting Jabulanth, we would have heard the roaring," Dusty countered. "No matter how far ahead he got."

But Eben did not reply, and Dusty followed the trail of broken branches into the center of the grove. There was a was a large white stone, flat like a table, and tinted blue by the light reflecting off the trees. On top of the stone was eclectic collection of offerings. Flowers, a few wooden figurines, a handful of coins. And in the middle, on top of everything else, was Delamyne's shield.

The grinning bard excitedly examined the mysterious item that was the object of their quest. The image of the red, red rose was face up and the outer rim was inscribed with a ring entwined rose branches, artfully decorated with silver thorns. It was beautiful, but worn. Dusty saw scratches on the front that had not yet developed rust. _-It must have had a rough time getting here-_, he mused.

Eben was less contemplative. He snatched up the shield and held it up, turning it over and peering intently. "I wonder what's so special? Well, I'll figure it out soon enough." Pressing some unseen button, a collection of colored crystal lenses popped out of his helmet and dropped into position in front of his right eye. With clicks and clacks the lenses popped up and down, letting Eben see through each combination of colors.

Dusty watched Eben work, trying very hard not to bother him with the dozens of questions and comments that were running through his head.

Then Eben's eyes squinted, and he stopped the cycling of colored lenses. "There," he pointed.

Dusty followed his finger to one of the silver thorns. It didn't look special. "I don't see anything."

"I was talking to myself!" Eben snarled. "Now be quiet. I need to confirm the results of the spectroscopy." He reached up now to his helmet and began manually selecting different lenses.

Dusty waited impatiently, listening to the maddening clicks as Eben painstakingly reconstructed the sequence of colored lenses.

"As I thought, a lead silver alloy." Eben finally concluded. He twisted some element on his armor and the crystal lenses retracted.

"That would block the visibility of any magical auras!" Dusty replied exitedly.

"It would also lower the melting point considerably," said Eben. He touched one hand with the other, and pointed a gloved index finger. There was a puff of smoke, and out of the tip of the finger appeared a hot, blue flame.

Eben brought the flame to bear on the leaden thorn, and almost instantly it began to melt. Out of the silvery ooze, a small, very thin piece of silvery white metal emerged. Eben plucked it from the molten lead with his metal-gauntleted fingers and used the flame to clean off any drippings. Then he deactivated the fire, and held up the tiny, mysterious object.

Dusty was facinated. He spoke a single word, and his pupils glowed. And now he could see the tiny piece of metal cloaked in an irridescent flaring green. A sign of powerful transmutation magic. "What is it?" he asked, his voice slow with amazement.

Eben eyed him contemptuously. "That will take time to figure out." No longer interested in Delamyne's shield, the armored investigator tossed it carelessly to the ground. He paced back and force, talking to himself. "I will leave a message for Jabulanth. Yes that's it. Attached to the shield. Then I can exchange whatever this metal shard is for my stolen property. And once my goods are safe, I can finally seek bloody revenge!"

"But Eben," Dusty complained, "Jabulanth can't get his hands on that thing. Whatever he wants with it-"

"Is none of my business!" Eben interrupted. "I'm not here to save the world, I'm here to get my things!"

"But what if it's dangerous?" Dusty complained, "What if-"

"Good grief, you are annoying! I don't care! And I have found the shield, so I no longer need you!" Eben began marching out of the grove. "It's probably something religious," he muttered, mostly to himself. "A shard from a paladin's weapon. A tiny piece of an upper plane. A sliver of a claw from a legendary metallic dragon. The small hole, asymetrically placed on one end, indicates an indeliberate construction."

"A small hole?" Dusty asked. Then he grinned even wider then usual. "Eben wait, I know what it is I _know_!" The bard began to pace and talk to himself just like Eben had been doing. "It's in the old stories. Some of the oldest stories. Stories about even older stories then _that_!"

"Well, spit it out!" Eben cried.

"They used to hide secrets in a way that could be unlocked with needle and thread. That's what it is. A sewing needle." Dusty explained radiantly.

"Oh, really." Eben retorted. Then he held up the object, considering it carefully. "Actually you may be right. What did this ancient instruction manual say on how it works?"

Dusty sighed, "It's not an instruction manual, it's a bronze age myth."

"Then what was the point of even bringing it up?" Eben growled. "I will still only know enough to decipher it's function after I complete a thorough study. In the course of which, I would surely have deduced that it is a sewing needle. Therefore, once again, you are useless."

"Look, just let me see it for a minute." Dusty held out his hand.

"One minute. And I'm counting." Eben passed the needle to Dusty. Then he looked annoyed and turned to the side, but kept one eye on the bard.

Dusty looked at the needle and concentrated. He tried to remember everything he could, about the stories of the early Traldar. Before the gnolls invaded. Before Laav was founded. Something about talking animals, that left secrets in cloth. Secrets unlocked by magic needles that wove thread into maps...

Dusty looked down at his worn, light brown shirt. He found a stray thread and put the needle next to it. He felt a tiny tug. Eagerly, he pushed the thread into the needle, but nothing happened.

He tried again with the frayed edge of his dark green cloak, where he had cut out a tiny cloak for the puppet, back at the Shady Dragon. This time the tugging was much stronger. But again, when he threaded the needle, nothing happened. "Maybe I need the right color fabric," Dusty muttered.

"Time's up!" Eben cried, impatiently.

"Yes, indeed, my pets." Jabulanth announced, shimmering into visiblity at the edge of the grove. "Time _is_ up."

* * *

><p>Jabulanth grinned at the startled duo across the open space in the middle of the shimmering blue trees.<p>

"Your feline friend took the form of a wolf with a shield, and led me on a merry chase. But by the time the deceiver realizes he is now the deceived, and the half-elf chasing him is only an illusion, it will be too late for him to come to your aid." The half-eared Jabulanth grinned an evil grin.

"I will give you the needle, if you give me my things, thief!" Eben angrily retorted.

Jabulanth frowned a moment, but then he remembered. "Oh that's where I've seen you! The artificer's lackey! Well, well. You've come a long way for nothing. I see no reason for dreary barter, when delightful battle beckons!"

"So be it, worm's meat!" cried Eben, and his crossbow extruded and assembled. The black metal arrow instantly flew forth, but Jabulanth was swifter. Moving faster then anyone could naturally run, he dashed up the side of the tree, as easily as walking on land. The arrow embedded itself in the trunk, a circle of frost emanating over the bark as the infusion futily discharged.

The half-elf now stood casually on the bottom of a large branch, upside down like a bat. He smirked at Eben, "Missed me, missed me, now you gotta kiss me!" and he mockingly puckered his lips.

Enraged, Eben fired his shoulder-mounted crossbow repeatedly, but Jabulanth bobbed bounced and weaved among the blue trees, always a step ahead, or above, or below, laughing crazily with deranged joy, as the arrows whizzed past.

Dusty began to sing from The Song of Halav

_ Death, flying dragon, over shadowed town, men running helpless.  
>Bone arrow, long drawn, Zirchev, nature lord, aimed high and death fell.<em>

And Eben, surprised, could almost see the legendary hunter Zirchev aiming his bow at a swift moving target. He saw the vision not like a memory, but like a mess of wires and buttons, to be twisted into a useful form. A craftsman's vision of what and how his work should be, a memory of a thing that has not yet happened. And he saw that he just needed a small adjustment and shot his next arrow slightly to the left.

"Arrgh!" cried Jabulanth as the metal found flesh. The half-elf stared furiously at Dusty. "That's cheating!" Anger twisted his face, and then he vanished again.

"Neat trick," Eben muttered as he activated his lenses and spun around, searching for the invisible target.

Dusty beamed. It was the first nice thing Eben had said to him. It was the first nice thing Eben had said at all. "Well, it's the Thyatian translation, not the original Traladaran, see, but it still-" Dusty started to explain, but Eben was ignoring him again and rushed to the half-elf's last known position.

Dusty was about to follow when he heard a faint, feminine voice. "Dusty Drifter, you are the chosen one!"

"Who's there?" asked Dusty looking right and left.

"I am the Shield of Delamyne, Dusty. You are the chosen one!"

Dusty ran to the shield, still tossed aside where Eben had left it. He picked it up suspiciously.

"Look into the center of the rose Dusty, and I will reveal your true nature!"

Dusty held the shield up to his face, squinting intensely. Then Jabulanth appeared on the ground, on his back, under the shield as his heavy kick to the metal disc dispelled his invisibility again.

The shield smashed Dusty's face and he sprawled backward on the ground.

"Your true nature is being a tool!" laughed Jabulanth.

But Dusty surprised the half-elf by rolling over and leaping at him. Caught off guard, Jabulanth fell to the sudden tackle. "Red, yellow, blue!" Dusty shouted, stabbing at Jabulanth's patchwork outfit with the sewing needle.

"Ouch! Ouch! Ouch!" Jabulanth shouted. "You prick!"

Dusty paused, considering one of the many colored pieces of fabric stitched together into the half-elf's outfit. "Would you call this one tan, or maybe taupe?"

"Stop spooning, bard, and get out of the way!" Eben cried, a glowing wand pointed at the tangled duo.

Dusty knew Eben wouldn't hesititate on his account, and hurled himself sideways, rolling towards a tree. A few seconds later the fireball exploded and Dusty was knocked still further by the blast. Dazed, and bit singed, he staggered to his feet. Black bits of ... something were raining down in the blue grove.

"Ha!" shouted Eben. "Revenge at last! Even if I never find out what he did with my precious property, it was worth it!"

But then Dusty and Eben heard Jabulanth's evil giggle. "I guess that little contingency spell was worth the money after all."

Then Dusty felt a stabbing in his foot, and he realized the falling black objects were not charred bits of half-elf, they were caltrops. The whole grove was covered in them, and some of them had grown into razor jawed bear traps and tripwires. "Oh boy," Dusty muttered. "This is bad."

"Don't move, Eben, the whole area is covered in traps!" Dusty called out.

"I can see that fool! Get over here and cover my back! We're sitting ducks standing still!" Eben retorted.

"How 'bout you come to me, you being the one with the metal boots and all?" Dusty replied, standing up and trying to see everything metal half-buried in the pine needles.

Eben activated his cycling colored lenses, and carefully scraped his way through the caltrops towards Dusty, looking around for the invisible half-elf. But he saw nothing, and Jabulanth did not speak or act or do anything to reveal himself. "Stand back to back, so he can't surprise us." Eben commanded.

Dusty turned away from Eben and took a step and CLANK! "Aaaagh!" Dusty shouted, "It's in my leg! It's in my leg!" A bear trap that had materialized under the pine needles had snapped shut around Dusty's ankle, the metal jaws cutting deep and drawing blood. It had also caught Ebens foot, although it did not penetrate his metal armor. And now their legs were pinned together.

"This is incredible. Turn around, we have to get clear of these traps!" shouted Eben angrily.

"Aargh!" Dusty cried back, in pain.

"When I say go, start with your left! Go!"

"Ooomph, oh no, OUCH!"

"Grrr. Your _other_ left, fool!"

"Ouch, OUCH, ouch, OUCH, ouch!"

But it was too late. From a behind a tree, a glowing whip streaked out and wrapped around the three-legged pair, then magically tightened, binding them like a lasso. There arms locked tight, Eben and Dusty could only watch as Jabulanth stepped out into the open.

"As much fun as this is, I really do need to destroy that needle now. So, just hand it over," Jabulanth giggled maniacally. He pointed at the restrained hands of Dusty and Eben, like it was the funniest joke he'd ever made.

"I'll be sure to give your regards to your precious possessions when I get around to pawning them off, Mr. Eben... what was it?" Jabulanth asked, mockingly.

"Black," growled Eben.

"Black," Dusty replied brightly. "I still haven't tried black." And he twisted his lips and spit a huge blob of saliva at Eben. The wet splotched on Eben's cheek and slid down into the collar of his armor.

"Wretched minion, you turn on me now? I see your loyalty is as shallow as your intellect!" Eben shouted. But then the needle Dusty had hidden in mouth, reacted to the black fabric Eben wore and began to work it's magic.

"Ick, ack, ook" Eben cried, shaking about in a jerking dance, as something dramatic began to happen inside his full plate.

"Aaagh, arrgh, ouch!" Dusty yelped in counterpoint as Eben's movements twisted the bear trap clamped on their legs, and bumped the caltrops stuck in his hands and feet.

"No, no, NO!" Jabulanth shrieked, as Eben's unraveled garments splurged forth from inside his armor in a languid cloud of black thread.

The silver needle darted about in the air, and in a few seconds, it had woven the thread into a three dimensional cloth raven. Then, the knotted fabric shimmered like liquid, and the cloth raven melted into a real one. The silver needle was in it's beak, and the needle, too, had twisted, now taking the form of a tiny, exquisite, silver key.

"Ha!" shouted Eben again. "You have failed to stop me! My minion has summoned your doom! Destroy him, Black Bird of Woe!"

But the raven, key in beak, simply flew soundlessly away, through the branches and disappeared to the south.

Eben and Jabulanth turned from watching the blackbird's escape, and stared at each other. The half-elf's face was twisted in uncontrollable rage.

"Well this is awkward," muttered Eben.

* * *

><p>"Space! Destiny! Reality! These things have no hold on me! Why, why, why, am I always, always wasting <em>time<em>?!" Jabulanth was shouting and pacing back and forth, talking to himself.

Beneath the blue pines, glowing in the starlight in the dark before dawn, his two prisoners struggled uselessly. They were still tied up by Jabulanth's animated rope, and still had a leg each clamped together in the jaws of the bear trap.

"Do you think he forgot about us?" whispered to Dusty to Eben.

"Silence, fool!" Eben hissed back. "I'm trying to think of a way to get untied!"

"You know," Dusty lectured, "as often as you get tied up, you'd think there'd be a gadget or button or something to get untied."

Eben turned angrily and growled through clenched teeth, "If I'd had time to finish the armor before the robbery, I'm sure I'd have a button to deal with all undesired situations. Including this conversation!"

Jabulanth finally heard them and stopped his monologue. "I wish I had the time to kill you the way you deserve to be killed. But I have to go clean up the consequences of your avian textile's unexpected activation."

"Wait," Dusty interrupted. He'd been thinking about what to say. "Only one hourglass ran out before we escaped. You can't kill us. The time isn't right." Dusty looked smugly triumphant.

"Only one, hmmm? Well, I suppose I can kill one of you then, and just maim the other." Jabulanth mused.

"After I heal, I shall avenge your death." Eben stated, matter-of-factly.

"Hey," said Dusty, defensively, "how do you know he's gonna pick me to kill?"

"I can't imagine who wouldn't, given the opportunity." Eben shot back.

"Humans." said Jabulanth, shaking his head sadly. "I can't believe I came out of one of you."

The half-elf's hand drew a twisted dagger, with a horridly sculpted hilt, and he moved toward the two prisoners. He grabbed Dusty's hair and pulled his head up, and put his face so close that their noses touched. The bard's terrified eyes locked with Jabulanth's own. The half-elf's green gaze appeared heavy lidded and almost bored, but his pupils still flickered with anticipation. "I like to see the sand run out. I like to see that exact moment," the he hissed, looking deep into Dusty.

The bard could feel the curved cold of the knife against his throat. His mind was scattered with panic. One part was thinking for a way to get out of the ropes, another part was thinking of some magic words to say to Jabulanth to stop or delay his execution, and a third part was, absurdly, thinking of how he would tell the story of his narrow escape back at the inn. And realizing how much effort he'd wasted, putting this silly, foolish journey into words in his head already, he laughed.

At this sound, Jabulanth stepped back, and lowered the dagger. He looked confused and frustrated. "Facinating," he said. "you are useless." Ignoring Eben, he turned and walked away, out of the grove.

Halfway to the lake he vanished midstep, and the glowing ring of rope around Eben and Dusty vanished as well. The conjured traps and caltrops faded back into the magical energy from which they were made. They were free.

Eben looked confused for a moment, but then he recovered his composure. "Well, I see my hypothesis on your competence is supported by other observers."

But Dusty ignored him, still shaken by his close call. He went over, limping, and picked up Delamyne's shield and just looked at it for a moment. It was almost sunrise, and there was a faint glow in the east. Was it worth it, this night? This shield?

Dusty was suddenly tired and frustrated. He didn't understand what had happened, what the black bird meant, why Jabulanth hadn't killed him, and why Milla was still mad. And thinking of Milla, he felt homesick, and the much-too-short uncomfortable cot in the kitchen of the Shady Dragon seemed like the best place in the entire world.

But then he thought again of that strange silver needle. Slowly, his curiousity returned, and with it his fear and nervousness melted. And he needed to know. He needed to know how the story ended. He looked up at Eben who was marching out of the grove of blue trees.

"Well?" Eben queried, "Are you coming?"

"You still need me?" asked Dusty, surprised.

"Of course, my books may have scattered in the wind, and I need someone to gather them, and someone to carry them. This isn't over yet! Besides, you owe me money on your rental space."

"Ohmygosh, Eben, the guys in the portable hole! They probably need fresh air by now!" Dusty cried.

"Well that sounds like a good deed, and that means I'll have to charge you another fee. With interest of course."

"Of course," sighed Dusty.

Eben twisted around, to get to the piece of magic fabric, and then cried, "Pinching! Chafing! Freezing! This armor was not meant to be worn without undergarments!"

"Well, well," Dusty grinned, "I just happen to have a potion of barkskin on me."

"Give it to me at once!" ordered Eben.

"First let's talk about my interest rate," countered Dusty.

Eben looked at the bard appraisingly, with one eyebrow raised. "Perhaps you are not a lost cause after all, my young minion."

And Dusty still grinning, felt his spirits rising with the sun.


	5. A Conspiracy of Ravens, Part 1

_ I said, "Why tell me of the world? My world is here,  
>between these walls and the sheet of glass above;<br>here among gilded flagons and dull jewelled arms,  
>tarnished frames and canvasses,<br>black chests and high-backed chairs,  
>quaintly carved and stained in blue and gold."<br>_

_"For whom do you wait?" he said, and I answered,  
>"When she comes I shall know her."<em>

_ – The Studio, Robert W. Chambers_

* * *

><p>A Conspiracy of Ravens, Part 1<p>

* * *

><p><em>Conrad Twist has reversed entropy!<em>

So opened the journal of the eponymous spellcaster on the day of 3 Thaumont, in a short and cryptic sentence entirely uncharacteristic of the otherwise tediously meticulous record of his research and daily life. He recognized the deviation and followed up with a short explanation.

_ Today I must write these words first, before proceeding in the proper format. While I know that science, even the science of the arcane, is, at it's core, a workman's profession, and how the tedious recording of minor details whose importance or irrelevance to the great chain of causality may not be known for centuries is essential to the integrity and reliability of the reports of its practitioners, nonetheless, I violate this precept with this joyful declaration, marking this day as one in which, even I must admit, destiny may have intervened in the unconscious unfolding of natural and magical law._

_ But, like any workman, who pauses to indulge in an all too human yawn or daydream, I must return to my chores with glad responsibility. For those who live the life of the mind, there is no such thing as too much information._

Much information followed, encrypted in an even more erudite vocabulary, from which the following extracts may be the most essential:

_ Awake at 6AM, no rainfall, winds light from the northwest. Breakfast of turnip soup, and leftover bread crust. No eggs. (see below) ..._

_ ... Today (at last) my six week suspension is over, and I admit, with relief, that I am no longer employed in the barn yard. I believe the feeling is mutual after my failed experiments to improve the livestock with planar energies. The axiomatic chickens do indeed lay a precise number of eggs on a precise schedule, and the cubic eggs are much easier to stack and store. However, I have been informed that the way the egg whites spread to form a perfect square, with a square yolk in the middle, is, and I quote, "creepy." The dean ordered them destroyed, but the farmhands were too afraid of them to try, so they were simply released into the wild. After the coop was opened, they marched out single file and headed down the road, their little clawed feet stomping in time more perfectly then a military band..._

_ ... The anarchic cow project fared no better. My hypothesis of chaotic milk production was happily confirmed, and while I was able to coax the substance into a variety of cheeses and creams that would normally require milk from many different species and breeds, there were side effects. For example, Maria Moo-Ra (as I have come to call her) developed a distinctly uncowlike aversion to authority. In fact, I am the only person she will allow to milk her, which limits the economic utility of my result. The farmhands are afraid of her, too, particularly the way the glyphs of Limbo sometimes glow in her eyes, so they just leave the barn open and she comes and goes as she pleases. Any attempt to contain her has been met with great violence, and required me to waste a day on fence mending, and a night covering the work of the hospitalized farmhand..._

_ Still, these disappointing results must be considered in light of the very limited resources available to me at the time, and, therefore, you must imagine how I look forward to my return to full status as a student at the Karameikos School of Magecraft. With my access to the libraries and laboratories restored I would, at last, be able to resume more serious research. So my frustration when the dean proposed to the headmaster an extension of my suspension. While I myself am certain this is injustice, I must defer to the judgment of the headmaster, like all poor apprentices dependent on the whims of the establishment for permission to continue the pursuit of knowledge._

Conrad's description of the incident with the farmhand and the anarchic cow left out some important details of the social sort he is likely to omit. A more complete account of how the injuries suffered by Vladimir, the unfortunate laborer, occured starts with the appearance of Conrad's friend Dagny. She made a daily pilgrimage down from the lofty orange crystal towers of the school of the magic to the primitive brick and mortar agricultural establishment that wallowed below, resentfully providing the unappreciative scholars with food and drink.

Conrad was hauling a bucket of milk from the barn where "Maria Moo-Ra" had allowed herself to be milked. He was absurdly tall, well over 6 feet, which was already a foot above normal in the Traladaran lands, where an advanced diet included the occasional squash cooked in the turnip soup. Any intimidating advantage his height gave him in his billowing mage robes was lost in his current outfit of a simple peasant's tunic and pants. Both articles of clothing had once been white, but were now stained and frayed, and they revealed he was as skinny and spindly as he was tall. Even though the pants and tunic were the largest size available, the shirt didn't quite reach his belt, and the pants didn't continue much below the knee. His dark brown hair could be described neither as long or short, but perhaps as untrimmed, uncombed, and certainly unnoticed by the absent minded mage. Nevertheless, he was suddenly self conscious enough to run his fingers through when he heard his female friend and fellow student Dagny shout, "Hey, Twist! How's the cowboy job goin'?"

"Hi, Dag, really well. I've successfully infused the udder with protomatter!" he said.

Before he could continue, Dagny interrupted, "I don't even want to know. The question was rhetorical anyway. I figured you'd be jumping to get out this dump."

"Oh, I am, certainly, but I'm going to miss Maria. She was a fascinating project." He looked back the meadow beyond the barn where the black and white spotted dairy cow was tranquilly grazing.

"Well good mornin' miss Dagny, don't you look lovely today." Vladimir the shepherd sauntered up from out of nowhere. It looked like he had just dunked his head in the rainbarrel, and his orange hair was slicked back, although the cleanness of his face only highlighted how dirty the rest of him was.

"Get lost, buddy, we're talking shop." Conrad said rudely. "Unless you have an opinion on transdimensional material causality that you'd like to contribute."

"Conrad!" Dagny interrupted. "Ignore him, Vlad. And thank you for the sausages you sent up."

"Of course, miss, it was my-"

"He sent you sausages?!" Conrad laughed, incredulously, "you don't need to contact another plane to figure out what that means!"

"Conrad!" snapped Dagny.

"Quite alright, miss. By the by, the kitchen's whipped up some cheese balls and I've taken the liberty of reserving two of the largest balls for you. If you wait a moment I'll go get them out for you." Vlad offered, sincerely.

At this Conrad, bent over laughing, not even trying to muffle his guffaws. Dagny, in spite of herself, giggled out loud, then quickly covered her mouth and looked aside.

Uncomprehending, Vlad just looked confused. He glanced back and forth between Conrad and Dagny looking for a clue to what the joke was. Then, realizing it must be him, he blushed and muttered, "Another time, then, another time."

"No, c'mon Vlad," Conrad laughed, condescendingly, "you wanna show her something, so why don't you _drop your pants!_"

That last phrase, carried within it the magical power of a command spell. Instantly and reflexively, Vlad obeyed. A moment later he realized what had happened, and just as quickly pulled his pants back up. He turned red as his hair, and managed to croak only, "I..." before turning and running into the barn.

Conrad's started laughing again, until he turned and saw Dagny's furious face. Only then did he realize how far over the line he was. Sobered by her wrathful stare, but unable to admit fault, he doubled down on his cruel prank. "Oh c'mon Dag, he's just a moron who cleans the place! You aren't really going to make time with a guy who can't even read! I just did you, and him, a big favor, believe me. I mean how long were you gonna keep leading him on?" He spoke loudly, but his cheeks were hot, and his heart was pounding as though he were the one who had just been humiliated.

"Conrad..." Dagny growled, "Sometimes you just... just..." She struggled for the words, "need to mind your own business!"

She stared a moment longer, then turned and stomped back toward the school.

Conrad looked after her, a defensive pout on his face, until she was out of sight. Then his face relaxed and he looked tired. Sighing, he bent down and picked up the milk pail, bending back his beanpole body to balance the weight. And that's when Vlad tackled him.

The pail went flying, and the milk spilled everywhere. Conrad rolled over, and Vlad was on top of him in instant. The commoner didn't say anything to the wizard, but the expression on his pale face silently shouted implacable rage. He started pounding on the prostrate Conrad, and it was clear that serious injury was the least severe outcome that the shepherd had in mind.

Then Maria Moo-Ra, grazing in the meadow, saw the fight. The sigils of Limbo blazed in her eyes and the black and white dairy cow charged, plowing through the fence as though it were paper, and headed right for the oblivious shepherd.

The healer said that it was lucky she was a female and lacked horns, or Vlad might not have survived.

* * *

><p>After the shepherd was no longer in critical condition, and the healer had time to patch up Conrad, the mage was released and spent the rest of the day and most of the night doing both mens chores. He almost overslept, but awoke just in time to make his daily journal entry before he had to appear before the headmaster to hear the latest complaint against him by the Dean. Such formal meetings took place in the administrative office, where the headmaster a large expensive desk and dramatic throne-like chair which he avoided using whenever he could. He preferred meetings in his comfortable private study, but the legal formality of the hearing required a more dignified setting.<p>

A record of all the dialogue that took place in that room was recorded flawlessly, by an animated quill.

DEAN: Headmaster Terari, I must demand for the good of this institution that this apprentice's suspension be extended, or better yet, permanently extended.

HEADMASTER: Expulsion? My, my, what happened now Dean Stanton?

DEAN: He is entirely undisciplined, and unrepentantly so. I assigned him work in the barnyard to keep him out of the labs, but he somehow began experimenting with astral energy on the livestock!

HEADMASTER: What does that mean?

TWIST: Anarchic Cow, sir.

HEADMASTER: Really? How was the milk?

TWIST: Partly unpresubstantiated, sir. I was able to coax it to variants outside of subfamily bovina by imitating the appropriate sounds of the target species into the bucket as the milk was extracted.

HEADMASTER: Fascinating. Did you only use aural cues, or did you have a chance to try -

DEAN: (interrupting) Headmaster, please. The results of the experiment are not the point. The point is that they were done without proper authorization, while on suspension for performing experiments without proper authorization! If he cannot follow the rules, he cannot be allowed to continue here. The school is new, and the peasants are suspicious of our intentions. A single accident could have institutional consequences beyond the walls of the school.

HEADMASTER: Reputation with the locals is important, my dear Dean, but surely so is our reputation with potential recruits? If we produce nothing but dull mediocrities, well, who would hire our graduates? Who would send us their apprentices? Curbing excess is different from punishing curiousity, and I don't think an anarchic cow is sufficient for expulsion.

DEAN: But combined with his previous offense -

HEADMASTER: (interrupting) And what was that?

DEAN: He was studying archivist scrolls, Headmaster. Clerical magic.

HEADMASTER: Oh, dear... Conrad, you cannot expect to muck about with that sort of thing without consequences. After all, the immortals reserved those powers to their own followers, and until the recent catastrophe, it was impossible for anyone else to make that kind of magic work at all. I know you young geniuses think that religious taboos are all superstitious nonsense, but some of them exist for good reason. It is dangerous to take them lightly.

TWIST: The Glantrians don't think so, sir. In fact, they have been -

HEADMASTER: Don't bring up those vile Glantrians with me, Twist! If ever there was an example of magic experimentation gone too far! They caused the great catastrophe! Sank Alphatia into the sea! Two thousand years of civilization, the greatest in the world and – (here the headmaster stopped and tried to collect himself)

DEAN: Go on headmaster, I agree completely, and I think we must expel this Glantrian sympathizer. Let him journey to that accursed nation and study among other undisciplined reprobates.

HEADMASTER: No, Dean Stanton, that is why we cannot expel him. We are here to teach more then just arcana, are we not? But, young Conrad, I think the Dean is right that it is better to keep you busy awhile longer. At least until you control your curiosity instead of the other way around, hmm?

DEAN: Very well, headmaster, although I can't imagine the farmhands will be glad to see him again.

HEADMASTER: Oh no, Dean Stanton, that would be a waste of young Conrad's talents. You must be aware of the recent disappearances of members of our noble profession? Throughout the country in fact, often along with their apprentices.

TWIST: Yes Headmaster, although it has been hard to separate rumor from fact.

HEADMASTER: It is both real and serious. And when a wizard disappears it is a tricky dilemma. They have left many nervous towns with unattended wizard towers. Some of the faculty have been taking students on field trips to remove any dangerous or useful items from these abandoned towers. This will help reassure the citizens that we are an asset to the community, which in turn, I am sure, reassures you, Dean Stanton. But it also allows us to search for clues to solve the mystery of these vanished wizards. We now have several rooms of crates and objects in need of cataloging and identification. Do you think this is a task you are up to helping with Master Twist?

TWIST: Yes, Headmaster, it sounds fascinating. I am sure I will learn a great deal.

DEAN: I must protest, Headmaster. This isn't officially school property he's playing with, and wizards have been known to return as suddenly and mysteriously as they vanish. If anything were damaged or lost due to his incompetence, we could make powerful enemies.

HEADMASTER: My dear Dean, what better incentive does Twist here need to improve his self control? I am sure he is intelligent enough to recognize the consequences, and that he will act in the best interests of the greater pursuit of knowledge.

TWIST: Thank you Headmaster, I will. Good day. And to you, Dean Stanton. (exits)

HEADMASTER: While you are here, Dean Stanton, I would like to ask about our new visitor. Repdal is her name, I believe?

DEAN: Yes, headmaster, she has already given two lectures on the creatures of the Underdark. It is good to know that the school has begun to attract researchers of her caliber. Her knowledge is quite extensive.

HEADMASTER: Yes, yes, I have no doubt of that it is.

DEAN: Did you have concerns about Repdal, headmaster? Would you like me to investigate her further?

HEADMASTER: No, Dean Stanton, I have no concerns to share at the moment. And leave her to go about her business. But if you could forward me transcripts of her lectures I would appreciate it.

DEAN: Of course, headmaster. Good day. (exits)

HEADMASTER: (after a few moments of silence) Well, do you think we need to proceed? I am worried about the risk to my students, allowing her full run of the libraries.

WOMAN'S VOICE: No, not yet. She is here for something specific. Something that must be allowed to play out in it's own way.

HEADMASTER: Very well, but if she is connected, we cannot allow her to escape.

WOMAN'S VOICE: On the contrary, she must be able to communicate with her employers, to force them to act in haste.

HEADMASTER: I hope your plan works out better this time, dear lady.

WOMAN'S VOICE: Before, they were the ones who knew more then we did. Now, our side has the edge in information. And that is what will decide the battle.

HEADMASTER: Wisdom, indeed, is power. I will take comfort in the courage of your words, and continue this deception in the hope of serving the greater good. (exits)

* * *

><p>"So, on a scale of 1 to 10, just how badly did your skinny butt get kicked, Twist?" laughed Kipling. "Or do we need higher arithmetic?"<p>

"Ten's already higher then you can count, cretin." muttered Conrad between bites from his sandwich.

Conrad, and his three friends Kipling, Dagny and Suleiman were eating lunch at a table in the great hall. It was midday and the long wooden tables were crowded with other students and faculty. An animated flute and fiddle provided relaxing music, floating in the air near the roaring fire in the great hearth.

"Aren't you worried about getting in trouble?" asked Suleiman, wide-eyed. "I mean using magic on commoners is a pretty big violation."

"That peasant doesn't even know words big enough to tell anyone what happened. Besides, he deserved it," retorted Conrad. "He practically gets off on having a wizard to boss around. Shovel this, milk that, no break 'till this pile of rocks is over there. I was entitled to a little payback."

"Well I hope he gets better soon," intoned Dagny nobly.

"I didn't tell the cow to stomp him. And you're only worried about losing out on all the free food he sends up to you." Conrad glared at her.

"Hey, if you need anything special Dag, I can have my mom messenger it up for you from Mirros." Kipling volunteered.

"Thanks, Kip!" beamed Dagny, smiling widely at him.

Conrad rolled his eyes. Dagny had a dozen admirers strung out around the school, and never said no to any of the many, many gifts they offered her. But Kipling was an especially egregious case. His mother was a wealthy self-made merchant in the capital, and she believed anyone could learn anything with hard work, and therefore, her son would be a wizard. Maybe she was right, but hard work was the last thing Kipling knew anything about, and he was the most pathetic student in the school. Nevertheless, the administration was not going to contradict his mother's illusions about her son's potential when she was willing to donate so much to the coffers, so Kipling hung around doing what he pleased. Last year, his mother had sent him a flying carpet, and suddenly Dagny was no longer offended at the crude comments he made when they passed in the hall.

Conrad himself was one of Dagny's useful friends, being one of the brightest pupils, and unable to resist explaining any subject he knew anything about. He was smart enough to see through her games, and he knew nothing was going to happen between them, but he was also still mentally adolescent enough not to refuse her company when she sat down at his table.

Still, watching her shamelessly manipulate Kipling was enough to inspire Conrad's contempt to the point he was compelled to disrupt her transparent schemes. It was like being unable to resist shouting out an answer in class. Whenever he saw something someone else didn't, he had to act, to take credit for his insight in some way, and so he needled Kipling, "Hey Dag, Vlad told me about that ride you gave him on your flying carpet. Oh, wait, it's your carpet, isn't it Kip?"

Kipling and Dagny both looked up sharply. Conrad wasn't sure how she always managed to talk Kipling into letting her use it by herself, while he waited, hungrily watching her from the ground, but he bet that wouldn't be happening tonight. Conrad's face was plastered with innocence, while Dagny's eyes shot fire at him. Kipling looked confused, furrowing his thick black brows.

"Oh, Conrad, Vlad's just telling stories. He's just jealous of Kipling, I'm sure." Dagny said lightly, gently putting a delicate hand on Kipling's meaty fist.

But Kipling still looked as thoughtful as Kipling was able to look. "What else did that pleb say?" he growled.

Conrad opened his mouth, but Suleiman spoke first, "Relax guys! Twist is just messing with you, Kip."

Conrad would have called Suleiman a brown-noser, but that would have implied an ambition the black haired man lacked. He was nervous, obsequious, and eager to please, but not because he wanted to control people, just because he hated conflict. He did have a talent for joining things, though. Conrad couldn't even remember when he had transitioned from just hanging on to being a part of their dysfunctional little clique.

The lack of ambition was why Conrad had more contempt for Suleiman then his other two friends, although he would never use the word 'friend'. He was young, and his swollen ego so full of the importance of being Conrad, that even being "Conrad's friend" was a title he was unwilling to grant to anyone not in some way uniquely extraordinary.

Conrad stood up, "I have to get going, anyway. I'm still on probation and they've got me sorting out the stuff in storage."

"Well, don't blow yourself up," Dagny said, in a way that implied she was hoping for the opposite. In truth she liked Conrad's ability to see through her mask of giggly girlishness. She wasn't quite able to be herself around him, but it was still a relief to let her guard down just a little, to not worry about keeping up her act, since she knew he wouldn't be fooled anyway.

"Bye, Twist! Let me know if you need help!" Suleiman waved.

"That'll be the day," Conrad muttered, and went out of the great hall and toward the stairs down into the basement, where the new acquisitions were kept.

* * *

><p>It is often true that the buildings housing spellcasters are bigger on the inside then the outside, but Conrad was still boggled by the size of the cavernous basement housing endless rows of crates, statuary, and cloth draped furniture. It couldn't all be from the towers of missing wizards, could it? If so, the problem was much more serious then anyone was admitting.<p>

He wandered between the rows for a few minutes, his heightened senses straining to perceive what was inside the wooden boxes, sniffing for strange smells, listening for mysterious hums. But the room was silent, and the only smell was the musty odor common to underground rooms.

Returning to the entry, he found a jumble of packages, papers, and bags, with a small collection of notes set on top of the unsorted pile. With a sigh he perused the notes, took the pen, and began his cataloging.

_Item __6EQUJ1: Large shipping crate, marked. Abjurations detected, probably explosive runes. Marked for trap removal, and further investigation._

_ Item 6EQUJ2: Bundle of spellbooks, __taken from the tower of a missing __wizard __named__ Tauster. But the inscription __inside the book __reads __'__Toaster__'__. Probably a nickname, books are full of fire-related spells. __Another mage defined by__ fireball, another mage with no imagination. No unusual spells worth sending to the library. Marked for storage._

_ Item 6EQUJ3: Bundle of maps, notated in draconic. Seem to indicate a ruin west of Kelvin, in a ravine. Marked "Dragon Temple." How dramatic. Several poorly drawn sketches attached. I believe they originated from an expedition to the temple, and match some of the pieces here. Marked for storage._

_ Item 6EQUJ4: Carved dragon relief crudely pried from a wall, no enchantments. Markings seem kobold. Marked for storage._

_ Item 6EQUJ5: An odd metal door, inscribed with a raven. It looks like the lid of a coffin, but the coffin is absent. The raven appears to be holding something round in its beak, and in the center of the round object is a keyhole. There are powerful auras of conjuration and alteration. Marked for identification, and further investigation. It should be noted that the door appears sketched on the map with items removed from the ruin, but it's make indicates an entirely different origin from the other pieces._

_Item 6EQUJ6: Collection of dragon figurines, none larger then a few inches. Crudely made, probably kobold origin. Nonmagical. Marked for storage._

_Item 6EQUJ7: Several nonmagical texts. Checked for traps, none found. (a) Principles of Nondection and Defenses against Scrying, di Malapietra et al. (b) The Lords of the Deep, __Ilphemon__ (c) Shards of the Glass Hand of Ilnistra, __songs by __Melenious (d) A __H__istory of the Finders Guild, guidebooks of Sharn vol XIV (e) Legends of the Brass City, Vlaardoen (f) On the Interpretation of Dreams, Virayana. Marked for review by the librarians for inclusion._

_Item 6EQUJ8: Common texts __or works __of no scholarly interest__, The Song of Halav, Claransa's Travels to the Center of the World, __Joshuan's Almanac__ etc. Marked for storage._

_Item 6EQUJ9: Collection of correspondence, encrypted, cipher unknown. Letters signed with the mark of a rose. Probably a secret romance, but Marked for divination in case any clue to 'Toaster's' disappearance is inside._

Conrad stood up and stretched. He had been reading and scanning for several hours and needed a break. He did most of his thinking while walking, and he paced back and forth among the rows of boxes, hands behind his back, eyes down and thoughts turned inward. There were no windows and the basement was lit by steady, unflickering globes of continual light, which induced a disorientation in the perception of time. He felt both tired and agitated as he perambulated in circles.

Several things were on his mind, but none remained in focus very long. He was still considering the problem of Maria Moo-Ra, and how to make her attitude more pliable without removing her lactatious polymorphism. He thought about the new visiting wizard, Repdal, and her lectures on the Underdark he had to miss because of his suspension. He hoped Dagny took notes, but then she usually just used Conrad's. Finally, he thought about the forbidden Glantrian archivist texts he had hidden in the barn outside. Now that Vlad wanted to kill him, he would have to find a new hiding place.

Then a sudden noise snapped him to attention. Someone else was here, but he hadn't heard anyone open the door. He walked toward the entrance to the large chamber. Standing there was a short, brown haired woman, dressed in faculty robes. She wore no jewelry, no cosmetics, and a sour expression. "Are you Twist?" she asked obstinately.

"I am," Conrad replied. "I'm sorry, professor... ?"

"I am Mistress Repdal." the woman retorted. "Have you finished cataloging the new acquisitions?"

"No, not yet. Do you have a special interest in the belongings of this wizard named 'Toaster'?"

"I do. In fact, I was the one who requested his tower be cleared and brought here. I'm looking for something specific." She looked toward the stack of crates Conrad had been going through. "I'm not sure what exactly, but it will likely be marked with the image of a raven. Anything like that down here?"

Conrad looked surprised, then acted thoughtful. "I haven't come across anything marked with a raven, but I will notify you immediately if I find anything."

"Nevermind." she said, looking at him suspiciously. "I'll check myself in the morning. You clear out of here until then." She gave him a terribly fake look of concern. "It might be dangerous after all."

"Yes... of course, Mistriss Repdal. Let me just gather my notes and I'll leave at once." Conrad tried to look pleasant. "I am looking forward to finally being able to attend your lectures on your travels."

She looked at him patronizingly. "You have an interest in the Underdark then, young Master Twist?"

"I have an interest in everything," Conrad replied sincerely.

"Ah, I see," grinned Repdal. "You're one of those types." She turned to leave with with a last word, "A piece of advice, young know-it-all. Nothing is more boring then everything."

Conrad watched her go. Then moving quickly, he rewrote the page, with the description of item 6EQUJ5 changed to include no mention of ravens. He took the large door, still in it's frame, and wrapped it up in a tarp, and began the long struggle to get it out of the storage room and up the many flights of stairs.

* * *

><p><em> Of course, I had no intention of hiding the raven door indefinitely. I merely wanted time to study it myself first. I could find it, misfiled in the wrong row, at a later date. And then I could impress Mistress Repdal with my insight. Or so was my plan.<em>

_ Fortunately the stairs down to the storage room lead to a back exit, used for loading and unloading, which opened near the barnyard. I was able to get the item outside, although I don't know how. I've never had to haul anything like that in my life, and I had no useful spells prepared to help me. But once it was outside, I found Maria Moo-Ra where I had left her. I was somewhat worried that she might have been eliminated by Dean Stanton, or loosed like the axiomatic chickens, by the farmworkers. But she seems to like me, for some reason. With her help, I hauled the door to her stall in the barn where no one will bother us. Not with the reputation she earned trampling that idiot shepherd, Vlad._

_ I set the door frame down flat on the ground, and after a glass of pearl dust and wine, stirred with an owl's feather, began my examination. The symbols along the outside are draconic, but untranslatable. Proper names maybe, or words in another tongue rendered in that alphabet? Unknown. I tried pronouncing them and opening the door, but the nothing happens. The keyhole is the most curious part, since the door has no locking mechanism. At this point I was interrupted, and the interruptions directed my attention was drawn to a curious phenomenon._

The interruption Conrad wrote about was the arrival of his three fellow students Dagny, Kipling and Suleiman. They hurried into the barn, startling the young investigator.

"Conrad! It is you! What are you doing?" Dagny cried as she opened the barn door.

"Oh gosh, are you alright?" Suleiman squeaked.

"I told you he was fine," grumbled Kipling.

"Dag? Guys?" Conrad turned startled. "What are you doing down here in the barn?"

"I was out on the balcony with Kip, and I saw the disturbance going on down here. What kind of magic are you messing around with this time?" Dagny chastised.

"Somebody's gonna notice any minute now!" Suleiman said anxiously.

"You'd better get out here and check it out, big guy." Kipling ordered.

"What disturbance? What are you guys talking about?" muttered Conrad, as he stood up and walked to the entryway.

Stepping outside, and looking up, he saw it. A great whirling vortex of ravens, hundreds and hundreds of them. And there were even more that weren't flying, but just sitting around. On the fence, on the lamppost, along the roofline. Even on the ground. They were eerily silent. The only sound was the flap-flap-flapping of all those wings.

Conrad's eyes had a faint blue glow, a sign of the spells he had cast on himself to see invisible magic auras to help identify the properties of the door. And so he could see more then just the vortex of birds. In the center, twisting between them, was a long yellow ribbon. It appeared frayed and ancient, but did not tear or break. "Astounding," he said to no one, transfixed by the sight.

But someone else was also astounded. The shepherd Vlad had seen the tower of blackbirds and now crouched behind a barrel peering at the wizards across the yard. He watched the silent swirl of blackbirds with astonishment and fear. But when he saw Dagny and Conrad together, his fear was displaced by anger, and he narrowed his eyes and watched the spellcasters carefully.

"Are you gonna explain this, Con?!" yelled Dagny.

"We're gonna be in so much trouble!" moaned Suleiman.

"This place is gonna be covered in bird crap," mused Kipling.

"Everybody, shut up!" commanded Conrad.

He tried to follow the twisting ribbon with his blue-lit eyes. One end spiraled up and away, into the sky, the other seemed to be going down into the barn. He strode purposefully inside. His three fellow students followed him in. And sneaking up last was the shephard, who remained outside, nervously watching the creepily silent birds and the mysterious mages.

Inside, Conrad could see the yellow ribbon end over Maria Moo-Ra. And on top of her head was perched another raven, the only one in the barn. In it's beak was a shiny silver object. "Look there, what's it got?" Conrad asked.

"Is it jewelry?" asked Dagny.

"It's probably stolen," worried Suleiman.

"It's too small to be worth much," dismissed Kipling.

"It looks like a key." Conrad cried. "Get it!"

He tried to grab for the bird, but it flew up and out of reach, onto a high rafter.

"I'll zap him!" Dagny shouted confidently, and a ray of frost burst from her fingertip, narrowly missing the perched raven.

"Oh, gosh!" yelped Suleiman, "don't kill it! It might be someone's familiar! Someone important!"

"Ha! You guys can't even catch a stupid bird!" Kipling grinned maliciously, crossing his arms and watching the others struggle.

Maria Moo-Ra was watching the wizards chase the blackbird with bored, heavy-lidded eyes. Her expression changed to one of annoyance at all the disruptive activity in her barn. After a moment, she went over to a metal rake and stomped sideways on the pointed teeth with one hoof. The rake jerked straight up and then flew into the air, striking the raven as it circled between the beams.

The instant the rake struck, the blackbird unraveled into heap of black thread. The shapeless pile of string hung in the air for a moment, then fell to the barn floor in a heap. An instant later, the silver key landed soundlessly on top, and lay there glittering on the dark mass of unwoven weave. The four humans gaped in surprise, and the cow resumed its bored expression and chewed its cud languidly. The shepherd watched from outside the barn, amazed at the things wizards do in their spare time.

"I... uh... thank you, Maria..." Conrad stuttered, uncertainly.

"That's quite a cow you manufactured," complimented Dagny.

"I hope that bird didn't belong to someone important," Suleiman tittered.

"Will somebody stop staring and get the stupid key?" Kipling said.

Conrad bent to the pile and took the small, but very shiny, silver key. He looked to the door on the floor. It was still there, the image of a raven on it's front, the keyhole in the center of the raven carving's open beak.

He held the key up, in front of him, before the door in the floor. "Here goes nothing."

"Wait, wait. This key is for this door you've got on the floor? And you're just going to open it?" Dagny said, surprised. "That's not like you Con, you research everything for weeks before you try something. Not that you have any clue what will happen when you finally do."

"Oh no, oh no, what if it's a gate to the lower planes?" whined Suleiman.

"Heh, if that's true, open it Con. I've always wanted to meet a succubus!" laughed Kipling.

"I have to do something." Conrad muttered. "All those birds outside are going to attract attention. And if any faculty arrive, they'll just confiscate the thing, and I won't get a chance to try later."

He was actually more worried about the hidden stash of forbidden books from Glantri that were buried in the hay pile, then being discovered with the door. If any authorities arrived and found those texts, expulsion from the schoool would be the best case scenario.

Reluctantly, Conrad put the key in the hole.

There was a shrill PING and the key instantly straightend into long thin needle. "Ouch," Conrad yelped as he jerked his hand back and stood up. He saw a drop of blood on his pricked finger.

A strange yellow glow shone from the crack around the edge of the door. Slowly, of it's own accord the door creaked open, and the ground was no longer there. It was an empty space full of glowing yellow mist, and a howling sound that grew louder and louder. No one in the barn moved. Then, a woman's voice screamed, "Not a mask! Not a mask!" and someone fell up through the door as though it had opened out of the ceiling instead of the floor.

Conrad described it his journal thus:

_ You would think a beautiful naked woman falling -or unfalling as the case may be- into my arms would be romantic, or at least crudely erotic. But it turns out to be nothing of the sort. A limp human body is actually really, really heavy, and not the sort of thing you catch gently in your arms. I crumpled under her like a wet rag. In fact, the whole incident has reduced my already low evaluation of the dubious veracity of some of Kipling's more lurid tales of urban adventure._

_ I fell backwards, landing on Maria Moo-Ra, who had fortunately kneeled down moments before. I struggled to extricate myself from the beneath this stranger who had chosen the most unfortunate moment to begin obeying the law of gravity. Finally standing up, Maria and myself stood either side the new arrival lying in the hay in the barn, three foolish magi to one side, and, I later learned, a shepherd outside keeping watch in the night, called by the sight of the winged creatures above._

_ Fortunately, the flock of ravens outside, whatever purpose having silently gathered them being fulfilled, dispersed in a cacophony of shrieks and caws and flapping feathers. I hoped no one inside the school had seen the birds, and I would have time to try to clean up this mess. I was wrong._

* * *

><p>"You gotta tell someone, Conrad! You can't just conjure a woman and then keep her in a barn!" Suleiman pleaded nervously.<p>

"At least she's a babe." grinned Kipling.

"Oh, hush Kip," Dagny lightly reprimanded, and then muttered under her breath, "I hate you so much."

"She's waking up. Give her room, people!" commanded Conrad.

The woman's eyes fluttered open. She squinted in the orange light of the oil lantern at the blurry figures in front of her, dressed in robes. The unfamiliar smells of the barn assaulted her nostrils and she inhaled sharply. Then the bulk she was leaning against let out a loud, but disinterested 'moo' in her ear. She turned, face to face with Maria the cow, and screamed.

"Whoa, whoa, take it easy!" Conrad cried. "Relax Maria! Relax!" He tried to calm the startled bovine as it struggled to it's feet.

The woman stood and backed away, clutching the canvas tarp Dagny had draped over her around herself tightly. Hay was tangled in her long black hair, and dirt from the barn floor marred her pale white skin. She put a hand to her temple and tried to concentrate.

"We brought you some water and porridge. Are you hungry or thirsty?" asked Dagny.

"I am so sorry," groveled Suleiman. "Whatever we did, we'll make it up to you, I promise."

"I'm Kipling," growled Kipling with a deeper voice then he usually spoke with. "Don't worry, you're in good hands when you're in my hands."

"So we have some questions-" Conrad started.

"Shut up! Who are you people?!" the woman interrupted. Her defensive posture and expression had now inverted to agression and command. She stood straight up, holding the tarp together with one hand, and pointing at the four wizards with the other. "Don't just stand there! Get out! And don't come back until you've brought my clothes!" she shouted furiously.

As she spoke, several pieces of hay on the ground around her smoked and smouldered, the tips lighting like a circle of candles. A stack of milk pails toppled over, and the buckets began to spin around wildly on the floor. And a pitchfork leaning against the wall launched into the air and went flying. It passed only inches from Conrad's head and buried it's prongs several inches into the wooden wall.

That was more then enough for Maria, who backed out of the barn, forcing open the rear doors, and trotted into the dark meadow at a hurried canter. Conrad and the other three mages quickly backed out the opposite way, into the barnyard, and slammed the door behind them.

"Oh man, Conrad, we are in so much trouble! What are we gonna do?" moaned Suleiman.

An unexpected voice interrupted them, before Conrad could reply. "Yes you are, and I'd like to know that, too." It was Mistress Repdal. And peering nervously over her shoulder was the shepherd Vlad.

"I... uh... good evening, madam," Conrad stuttered. "I would just like to say-"

"Oh, give it a rest," Repdal replied. "Your dear little friend here told me all about the birds."

Peering over her shoulder, Vlad grinned malevolently at Conrad.

"Birds?" the mage asked, wide-eyed and innocent. "What birds?"

Repdal bent down and picked up a black feather. One of many scattered around on the ground. She twirled it between two fingers for a moment, then looked over it at Conrad, one eye raised.

"Oh, you mean _those_ birds," the tall young man continued. "Well they _were_ here but they left awhile ago-"

"Oh just tell her," Dagny interrupted. "It's not like she's not gonna find the door in the floor anyway."

"It wasn't us!" Suleiman snitched, "It was Conrad who activated it!"

"Yeah, I ain't goin' down for this one, big guy. You're on your own." Kipling snorted, taking a step back from Conrad.

"Enough!" shouted Repdal. "Open the barn! Immediately!"

Conrad gulped and turned and walked to the tall, wide barn door. Then he grabbed the metal handle and swung it wide.

Repdal swooped past him into the barn, gesturing a swarm of dancing lights that spread out and illuminated every dark, dank corner of the building. The raven door was still in the floor. The pitchfork still stuck in the wall. The pails were still scattered about. But there was no sign of the mysterious woman.

Repdal looked down at the raven symbol on the metal portal on the ground, and without hesitation, pulled the floor-door open. But inside was only hay and dirt.


	6. A Conspiracy of Ravens, Part 2

_A Conspiracy of Ravens, Part 2_

* * *

><p><em>Thaumont 4<em>

_I have become a victim of blackmail! __It's unbelievable__, a researcher of my caliber, having just discovered an object of such undeniable importance, being reduced by the prejudice and ignorance of my peers to cleaning lab equipment._

_Yes, Repdal discovered the raven door. Yes, she confiscated it, and all the other notes and objects from "Toaster's" tower. And yes, she found one of my forbidden archivist texts __from Glantri that__ I stupidly left out in the barn._

_She complimented me on my responsibility in wizard marking the text with my own name, and then offered to keep it while I helped her find the strange woman who came through the door. __How kind of her._

_The implication is clear. Given the headmaster's unexpected and deep hatred of all things Glantrian, I will have to cooperate with Repdal or face certain expulsion._

_Of course Repdal now knows everything that happened. Those three meddlers, Dagny, Kipling and Suleiman were falling over each other to confess. I don't have anything to bargain with. Now I'm stuck working as Repdal's lackey all day, and I'll be up all night catching up on my cataloging in the basement. She is not a tidy person, and even sorting basic spell components has taken most of the morning._

_I am distracted though, wondering what happened to the strange lady who fell up through the floor. She must have fled into the woods. If she went down into the village, certainly someone would have noticed, and Repdal would not be resorting to magic to track her. On the other hand, the strange powers she manifested in the barn, if under her control, might have allowed her to simply return to wherever she came from. Or anywhere else, for that matter. There is too little information to make educated guesses. The state of knowledge I hate the most._

Conrad sighed, and paused from writing in his journal to stretch. He glanced out the window at the great sundial in the courtyard. The shadow was visible whether the weather was clear or not, and seeing it his face lit up with relief. It was time for Repdal's lecture.

She was discussing her notes on the dissection of a grell. Repdal had just announced the dissection was scheduled for tomorrow. Conrad had been looking forward to it, but now he needed the time to return to the barn and recover the remaining hidden texts, buried in the hay under Maria Moo-Ra's feedbox. Repdal was guaranteed to be occupied for at least an hour, so with what little stealth a robed man more then six feet tall could muster, he slipped down the hall, outside, and down the winding walkway to the barnyard.

He looked around, glad that shepherd Vlad wasn't in sight. There was still a scattering of black feathers scattered around, windblown into small piles against the side of the buildings. But no other sign indicating anything as strange as the events of last night had happened just twelve hours ago. Conrad walked across the yard and entered the barn.

Maria was not in residence, and Conrad took a moment to search the barn to make sure he wasn't being watched. With a sideways glance over his shoulder, he bent down and lifted the food trough. Putting his hands into the hay he felt only ground. The books were gone.

"Looking for something?" came a voice, feminine, cold and dangerous.

Conrad spun around. It was her, the woman who had fallen through the raven door. She was dressed in an ill-fitting peasant's outfit that looked even more out place on a body standing with such aristocratic hauteur. Her red lips were pressed and expressionless, her lidded eyes searching and impassive, and her black hair, even rumpled and uncombed, did not undo her aura of icy control.

"Who are you?" gaped Conrad.

"I'll ask the questions," she replied. "If you want to see your books again, you'll answer them."

"Not you too!" groaned Conrad. "How many times am I gonna get blackmailed?"

"I saw that woman take the first book," smiled the woman condescendingly, "But I have all the rest. Now, what is your name?"

The wizard sighed. "Conrad Twist."

"What is this place?"

"The Karameikan School of Magecraft." He paused. "Well, I mean this is the barn. The school's the big ugly orange building on the hill outside."

"I figured that out myself," she coolly replied. "Now, I don't remember how I got here. Why was I brought to the barn?"

Conrad shrugged. This time, he was determined not to reveal everything up front, to hold something back to bargain with.

The woman's brow furrowed and she muttered, "A door in the floor, hmm? Light... birds... and a silver key?"

Conrad hadn't said anything. _-Oh no, a mind reader! Think of something, anything, recite the list of outer plane layers, the succession of Thyatian emperors, the ingredients of a tanglefoot bag...-_

"You could think of those things," the woman smiled, "but then you won't get your books back." Her smile faded, and she stared at him coldly. "Now, why me?"

Conrad was trapped. "I don't know, I don't know! It was unexpected. The door was some kind of magic gate, I activated it to see what would happen, and out you came!" He looked around as if seeking help. "You should ask Repdal, that woman who's got my other book. She seems like she knows what's going on. In fact she's trying to track you down right now. I'm supposed to be helping with that."

The woman frowned. "I don't want that to happen. Not yet. Make sure she doesn't succeed. Then find out what she knows, and return to me. I will be watching what you do. I will be hearing what you think. So don't even contemplate betraying me."

Conrad asked, "What's your name, anyway?"

"You don't need to know that," snapped the woman. "Now get going, and don't return until you learn what I want to know. Or there will be consequences."

Conrad couldn't help but wonder if he was better off bringing her to Repdal.

The woman laughed. "But you can't bring me to her. Even if you wanted to." Then she vanished into the air.

Conrad glanced back and forth, looking and listening, checking the ground for footprints or movement, but he sensed nothing. He stood there, trying desperately not to think out loud, a new experience for him.

Then he yelped with surprise as the rear doors banged loudly open. In walked Maria Moo-Ra, nonchalantly. She cantered over to her feedbox, looked up at Conrad, and let out a long sad "Moo."

"Aw, poor girl. Nobody's milked you, have they?" He chuckled. "I guess they're too scared." Grateful for something to think about that he didn't have to hide, he pulled up the milk stool and got to work.

* * *

><p>Outside, on the roof of the barn, the woman shimmered back into visibility. She looked around at the unfamiliar surroundings. The farm below, the forest behind her, the building towering on the rise before her. <em>-He's right, it really is an ugly building-<em> she thought. _-The kind of building someone designs to get attention, without knowing the difference between good attention and bad attention.-_ She frowned and considered that for a moment. _-Why did I notice that? Am I an architect?-_ The truth was, she couldn't remember. She couldn't remember how she got here, where she had come from, even her own name. But besides that, her mind worked quickly and well, and she stood on the roof trying to figure out her next move.

Suddenly her masked expression faded into a look of disappointment and vulnerability. Her commanding posture slouched, and she hugged her arms around herself and lowered her head. She had been waiting in the barn so long, wondering what might happen when someone finally returned. Now she realized how tired she was.

The woman hadn't slept all night. She had hidden in the back of the barn, playing word games, trying to remember. "_My name is... My mother's name is... My hometown is... nothing. My first pet was... My first job was... My favorite food is... nothing. I've seen the people who were in the barn before at... nothing. Nothing at all"_

When the farmhands awoke, she heard their thoughts, rippling through the ethereal from the nearby bunkhouse, as the workers grumbled up before dawn and began their morning chores. She was worried on of the men might come into the barn, but then she the incoming thoughts about the demon cow reassured her, and realized she was in a safe place. The cow didn't bother her, for some reason.

After the workers were scattered, she went into the bunkhouse. She stole a pair of clothes, and some food, and found a washroom with a dirty mirror, and finally got a look at herself. She didn't know what to expect exactly, although she'd felt her face with her hands the night before and tried to imagine it. _-I have violet eyes-_ she thought, and the thought pleased her. She liked being pretty. Was she popular too? Did she have friends? A husband? Children? She stayed as long she dared, staring into her own eyes in the dirty mirror, wondering who was looking back.

Later she hid in the barn and waited. She'd been in the barn last night, and she had seen the confrontation between Conrad and Repdal. The moment they'd entered she'd wanted to hide, and, somehow, turned invisible. She'd heard thoughts then, too, but wasn't able to concentrate on them well enough to understand what they were. She was too frightened and distracted, but later, when the farmhands awoke, she was able to focus and learn how to hear minds again. _-Or for the first time? Was I always able to listen to people think? The first time I heard other people's thoughts was... nothing.-_

She had watched Conrad get blackmailed by Repdal over the book he had left out. The Glantrian book. She didn't know what that meant, but later, when she searched the barn for food, clothes, or anything that might be hers, she found Conrad's other books. Instantly, a plan to blackmail him into helping her, just like Repdal had done, jumped into her mind. It was almost a reflex. _-Maybe that's what I do, manipulate people.-_ she thought. _-Maybe I'm a leader. Or a spy, or a diplomat. Or maybe just a tease-_

And then it occurred to her she had never thought to simply ask anyone for help, or even not to hide, to go outside and find somebody. The idea that other people knowing about her might be good and not bad never entered her calculations. _-I guess I'm one of those people who don't like to ask for help. The first time I asked for help was... nothing-_ Was someone after her? Was she on the run? Was she hiding because she was irrationally scared and vulnerable, or were her instincts protecting her from something? She frowned. She didn't trust instincts, she wanted information. But right then, instincts were all she had.

Standing on the barn, under a cloudy sky, she now had some information. That this Repdal woman might know something, and that appearance was something of an accident. And that was something to focus on, anyway. She looked again towards the ugly orange mage school of... what was it Karmika? Or something? _-Damn it, I can't afford to miss details, I can't afford to be sloppy! I'm careful because that time I wasn't something happened... something... no, nothing-_ Maybe depending on this dopey milkmage named Conrad was a bad plan. Maybe she should take the cow by the horns, as it were, and simply sneak into the mage school and go after Repdal herself.

But she was tired. Although she tried to make listening to Conrad's thoughts and then vanishing in an instant look easy, the truth was it drained her. And after a sleepless night, she didn't want risk charging into a warren of wizards who might see through her invisibility even if she had the energy to sustain it. Hopefully he'd finish with the damn cow and get out of the barn. Then she could hide in the hay and maybe even risk a nap.

A few minutes later, her wish was granted, and Conrad came out of the barn and into the yard. He looked around nervously, muttering something to himself, but she had dropped flat onto the ridge of the roof and he didn't see her watching him. He half-walked, half-ran back up the path, and into the courtyard of the ugly orange mage school. And the mysterious woman slipped back into the attic of the barn, and disappeared into a pile of hay, and a dreamless sleep.

* * *

><p>In honor of a midday meal of sauerkraut and beer, the animated flute and lute duo in the great hall was replaced with a brass quartet. The animated instruments tirelessly repeated a segment of a polka that lasted all of sixty seconds before repeating ad infinitem and ad nauseam. "It's the only part of a polka I know," the elven Mistress of Enchantments,who was also in charge of arts and entertainment, had apologized. "And you know how the chef insists on music authentic to the food..." Conrad, suffering with everyone else under the weight of the undying Oom Pah Pah, noticed the enchantress had wisely decided to take her food and eat in her own room today.<p>

"So what do you think happens to a tuba when a fireball goes off inside it?" growled Kipling.

"I think Grandmaster Terari should lend the band to the army. There's not a military in the known world that wouldn't surrender just to be free of the racket," countered Dagny.

"Oh, c'mon guys, it's not that bad!" smiled Kipling, hopefully. "It's kind of got a good beat. I could dance to this!"

"So go ahead," muttered Conrad, his mouth full of sauerkraut. "Dance away, and take those damn instruments with you. And the rest of these traitors." He glared at Dagny and Kipling.

"Oh, get over it Con," Dagny chided. "What were we supposed to do? Repdal's only visiting faculty, but she's still in charge!"

"Yeah," Kipling agreed. "You wanna mess around with anarchic crazy cows and naked bird ladies, you gotta expect blowback. It's not our job to cover for you. We didn't tell her in the first place anyway."

"Oh gosh, that's right," worried Suleiman. "You didn't do anything horrible to Vlad did you? Turn him into a frog or something?"

"Beyond my ability, for now," Conrad snapped. "But I would have if I could have."

"Seriously Con, if you were nicer to Vlad, Repdal would never have found out." Dagny gave him an obnoxiously parental look. "There's a lesson for you in this."

"Yeah," Conrad mumbled, "only deal with people after you've killed and reanimated them yourself."

"Good grief," Kipling laughed. "Get over it big guy. You didn't get expelled, so what's the problem?"

"He's gotta work for Repdal now, that's his problem," Dagny answered.

"Oh dude, that does suck," Kipling said, looking uncharacteristically thoughtful. "She's nasty."

"Kipling!" Dagny interrupted, staring.

"What, she is!" He replied, shrugging.

"Her looks are hardly the point, she is extremely intelligent, and rationally, that's all that should matter." Conrad intoned.

Now Dagny looked concerned. "Conrad, she's twice your age! You aren't seriously going to pursue her?"

Conrad looked surprised. "No, no. I was just making the argument that it is illogical to value people based on their looks. Or are you siding with Kipling this time, Dag?"

"NO!" Dagny replied, firmly. "But she's- well she doesn't put a lot of effort into looking her best at least. I mean it's not like make up is time consuming or difficult when you can cast cantrips. And a few pieces of jewelry could do a lot to make up for an otherwise bland appearance."

"Guys, relax, we don't need to argue about this," Suleiman interjected, trying to make peace.

"But how often do we get to see Dagny's hypocrisy displayed so openly?" Conrad sneered. "I want to hear more about how women should be judged on looks. Please continue, Dag."

Dagny took a deep breath, and continued, half angry, half amused. "Conrad, it's not that simple. I wish you could understand that there are things in life that are multidimensional, that you can't reduce to single more-good less-bad scale. I'm not saying looks are the only thing, or an important thing, but they are a thing. And when people don't care what they look like, it's not a good sign they're looking for a relationship."

"But I'm not looking for a relationship with Repdal," Conrad replied loudly. "I'm just saying that I'm smart enough not to care about looks."

"Baloney," Kipling snorted. "Not even you, Twist, not even you. What's your ideal woman then? A giant cerebrum?"

"Maybe that's his deep, dark, romantic fantasy," Dagny said, starting to giggle. "Skinny dipping in an illithid elder brain pool."

Everyone broke out laughing at that, and even Conrad had to suppress a grin. "Well that would be a fascinating experience, but hardly an erotic one. And not just because it would be fatal."

"Speaking of naked people, any news about the bird lady?" Kipling asked.

"Yeah, Con, did anyone find her?" Suleiman echoed.

"Well, you guys, me, and Repdal are the only ones who know, and if Repdal found her she didn't tell me about it," Conrad said, only half-lying.

"Don't forget about Vlad," reminded Dagny. "He might have seen her."

"Vlad's too dumb to find his own butt," Conrad crudely retorted. "Did you finish the portrait, Dag?"

"Oh, right, here it is." Dagny pulled a sheet of paper out from inside of the cover of one of her books. It was a pastel drawing of the woman in the barn.

Conrad took the portrait and looked at it appraisingly. "Not bad, Dag, not bad. At least your shallow obsession with people's appearances has made you a decent artist."

Dagny lacked Conrad's delight in confrontation and so she didn't take the bait. Instead she asked "Who are you gonna show it to?"

"I don't know." Conrad said, shrugging. "If she's wanted or famous or something, I might need to answer a lot of questions I don't really want to answer. I need a little time to come up with a good story."

"Just try being honest!" Suleiman said.

"Oh, right," Conrad muttered, rolling his eyes. "I conducted a forbidden experiment with stolen school property and conjured a woman with unknown powers who might be running amok in the barnyard, and do you recognize her? No? Okay then, forget I mentioned it!"

"Nothing's ever simple with you, is it Con." mused Dagny.

"Wouldn't want it be, even if it could." He grinned smugly. "I'd get bored, like I am right now."

He gathered his plate. "Between the music, and this conversation, I think I've had about enough of the ninth pit cafeteria for today." Standing, he bowed to the other three. "So farewell my eternal tormenters, we can continue this tomorrow." He left the room, and headed back to the lab where Repdal was working.

* * *

><p>The barn door opened with a bang and the mystery woman awoke with a start. She sat up, realized she had been sleeping, and tried to ascertain the time. It was still light out. <em>-A few hours at most-<em> she thought. She looked down from the loft in the barn expecting to see Conrad, but it wasn't him. Someone else was in the barn.

It was the orange haired shepherd, and another orange haired man. The new guy was taller and broad shouldered. Eldonza listened furtively.

"Finally," grumbled the tall man. "I can't believe you're scared of a cow."

"I tell you, that bastard bewitched it!" Vlad protested. "The salt lick will keep it busy for a while, you have time to figure out your ambush strategy."

"I don't really need no time to figure nothin' out. Just clonk him on the head, stuff him in the sack, deliver. It's always worked before," the tall man replied.

"But he's a wizard! You have to be careful, if they catch you-"

"You worry to much, bro," the tall man interrupted. "If you weren't so chicken, you wouldn't be stuck workin' with 'em. Chained and collared like a farm animal yourself is what you are. Shoulda' followed me and dad into the family trade."

"Yeah, well, dad got collared himself in the end, didn't he?" Vlad retorted. "In the village square, on the gibbet." Vlad jerked his own collar sharply with a finger.

The tall man shrugged. "At least he had some fun before he went, didn't have to lower his head with 'yessir master wizard sir' and what."

"I'm not going to go over this again, Boris, I-"

"Not Boris! Scorpion!" the man angrily interrupted. "My name is Scorpion now! No more Boris!"

"Fine, whatever," Vlad sighed. "Just get your business done, and don't involve me."

"Remember, you invited me, bro," Scorpion protested. "Finally. The Iron Ring is payin' premium on spellcasters -anyone that can do a card trick even- and me own brother's workin' at the biggest gatherin' of magickers in the country. And he won't help me out, I can't believe it, me own brother." Then Scorpion grinned. "Until now, anyway. This guy must have really given' you a kick in the pair if you're acknowlogin' your dear relatives again."

"Trust me, this guy deserves what he gets. I can't imagine anyone looking too hard to find him, either. But be careful. I'd rather belong here, even if I sleep in an outbuilding, then be on the run and wind up sleeping in a cell." Vlad replied.

Scorpion considered his brother sadly. "You were always a weird one. If it weren't for the hair, I'd wonder if Mom hadn't been sleeping funny places herself."

He looked around the barn for a moment, then pointed to the loft where the woman was hiding. "I'll just wait up there, and pounce when he comes in. Hay looks nice. I'll get a good rest up in while I wait."

"And you're sure you can handle him?" Vlad asked, nervously.

"Sure as day." Scorpion responded. He took a small glass orb out of his belt pouch. "I got just the tools for the job. Trust me. Before he walks through that door, he's cast his last spell."

"Fine then," Vlad replied. "Just keep the back door barred, the cow could be a problem if it gets back in." He turned and went out of the barn into the yard, closing the door behind him.

"See you later, then, bro, nice to see you and what!" shouted Scorpion to the wall. As he climbed the ladder to the loft, he thought he heard a sound, and turned and saw the barn door was open. Frowning, he went back down, closed it, and looked around cautiously. Then he shrugged, climbed the ladder a second time, and settled into the hay.

Outside, the woman nervously skittered around the side of the barn and paused to think. _-Not good, not good, not good at all!-_ she thought. What to do? She could try to derail the ambush. Or wait for it to happen and then try to rescue Conrad. But if he hadn't got the information she wanted beforehand, that would be a waste! Besides, if anything went wrong she was on her own.

The woman sighed deeply and looked up the hill to ugly orange mage school. She needed to stop depending on people anyway. She needed to get in there, and deal with Repdal herself. The milkmage could deal with his own problems, she had more than enough of her own. So she slipped into the shadows beside the barn, furrowed her brow, and tried to formulate a plan.

* * *

><p><em>At last! I've figured out the mystery woman's name! I think, anyway. I spent the afternoon working in Repdal's lab. She was there but barely acknowledged me. I could see she was studying the notes from Toaster's tower, the encrypted ones marked with a rose. But she wouldn't let me look at them.<em>

_Instead, I was tasked with collecting books on codes and searching them tediously for a list of nonsense words she gave me. Books with names like Gevgurzvhf, or Cnenpryphf. The words inside were as unpronounceable as the titles, and I suppose she thought if I found matches between the words in Toaster's letters and the words in a book, it would clue her in to which cryptosystem was being used. It also meant I had only a selection of words from the letters and wouldn't be able to decode it myself without her knowing. She's very clever._

_Instead of following her orders, though, I took a single word. The only word I knew that was related to the doorway, "RAVEN" and tried encoding it in all the ways I knew. Now that I had my own list of nonsense words, I needed to check Toaster's correspondence to see if any words on my list appeared. Then I would know the cryptosystem myself._

_Unfortunately, Repdal's desk was behind a large bookcase. This meant I couldn't see what she was doing without leaning over her shoulder, or climbing the bookcase. But it also made it hard for her to watch what I was doing. I decided it was time to use one of my forbidden Glantrian spells. Since I__'ve already been blackmailed twice__ for learning __from __them, I might as w__ell put that knowledge to some use._

_I muttered the dark words, and my hand grew furry, and three more fingers sprouted. Then it detached at the wrist, leaving only a stump on my arm. The hand writhed a moment on the table before completing the transformation into a tarantula. The spider was under my complete control, and more importantly, I could see what it could see. It's own visual input was translucently overlaid my own, slightly deranged by hexagonal forms warping and bending the light._

_It was, __sadly, a very __nearsighted __spider__. I made a mental note to craft a tiny pair of glasses with 8 lenses in case I needed to use the __arachnid__ to spy on distant objects. Perhaps a tiny spyglass even, while I was at it. __However__, there wasn't time to construct __any insect sized optical equipment__ right now. While I kept my back turned, the spider crawled quickly across the floor and up the side of bookcase. Peering through the spiders eyes, I looked down at the desk._

_Repdal had several pages laid out before her. I recognized the rose symbol I had seen when I cataloged the papers in the storage basement the night before. But the spider's vision wasn't sharp enough to make out what the words were. I had to risk getting closer. Slowly, I made the spider crawl down the side of the bookcase, getting closer, closer, but then Repdal stood quickly up, and with a sudden motion, smacked the spider with a book._

_The pain was real, as though my hand itself had been crushed, and the spiders blurred vision dazed me and left me a little dizzy. I yelped involuntarily. Trying to pretend __my cry__ was in response to the bang from Repdal's side of the bookcase, I rushed over to her, and asked if she was alright._

_"Of course I am! But someone has sent a familiar to spy on me," she said. She had my animated hand imprisoned under a glass bowl. I looked at the spider and saw it's looking at me, my image multiplied in an array of translucent hexagons. I offered to put the __creature__ in a cage, and made a move to grasp the bowl, forgetting I was missing a hand. She saw the stump on my arm, and grabbed it._

_Her eyes were all amusement and contempt as she berated me for my incompetence. She didn't seem angry though. I think she likes thinking I'm too foolish to be a threat to her, and that's why she __decided to use__ me to help with the research __in the first place__. I groveled and apologized and begged for forgiveness for my curiousity. Again she laughed, and released the spider. It snapped back to the end of arm and mutated back into a human hand._

_Telling me I was done for the day, but to come back tomorrow she ordered me out of the lab. I bowed and apologized again, trying to be pathetic and nonthreatening. Then I gathered my own books and went out into the hall. I heard her lock the door behind me._

_I smiled then, because I had hidden inside my sleeve, a crumpled page from Toaster's letters. I'd managed to sneak off the desk. I would like to say it was my plan from the start, but it wasn't. Still, I learned a good lesson in the art of misdirection._

_As I turned, I found myself face to face with Dean Stanton. I hadn't seen him when I came out. I wondered for a moment if he had been hiding, spying on Repdal himself, but that seemed unlikely. "Mr. Twist!" he addressed me in his grating, patronizing way. "Working for Mistriss Repdal now, too? I hope you have time to finish your labors cataloging the items in storage." Trying to hide my annoyance, I assured him that it would be done, and __that __I was heading there right now. But to my surprise, he continued the conversation. "And what is Repdal up to in there anyway? Underdark research? Or something else?"_

_I didn't know why the dean was asking, but I saw an opportunity. "I don't really know, but I think she's looking for someone. Do you know who?" And I took Dagny's drawing of the mystery woman out and showed him. He took it eagerly, very eagerly in fact. After looking at it for a few moments and frowning, he suddenly lit up. "I have seen her! Yes, I think I have!"_

_It was difficult to control my excitement. I tried to act only mildly interested as I requested he share this critical information. "Let me see if I remember. She was last here several years ago, I think. Shortly after the school opened. She came a few times with Lady Delamyne, that religious seer __from the natives' church__. They __both __spent a great deal of time talking with the minister. Once they were here for a week, constructing something in the lab. I don't know what exactly, but I think it was quite advanced. What was her name? Eliza? Anooza? No, Eldonza! That was it. Eldonza the ravengirl or something. She had a raven familiar, I remember. I wonder how Repdal knows her?"_

_I replied evenly that I wasn't sure, but I should get to the basement now, lots of work and all that. The dean asked if he could keep the drawing, and I agreed. I was excited at how fast things were progressing, and I couldn't wait to get somewhere private where I could start to plan how to use this new knowledge._

_I headed down to the basement, and, finally alone, I stopped to write all this down. To organize my thoughts a bit. Now, to work on decoding the message I stole, and then I can head to the barn to confront this Eldonza on more equal terms._

_I don't why I let her intimidate me so __completely__. So she can read minds! There are ways around that! The important thing is to stay rational and focused, __to_ _n__ot __let myself __get paranoid and act crazy. On my out, I will have to stop by the supply room and make a lead-foil hat._

* * *

><p>Conrad stayed in the basement only long enough to make a copy of the encrypted writing he had taken. Then he went back upstairs. After stopping at the equipment room, and making use of the lead foil, he went back to the locked door of Repdal's lab. Hopefully, she had gone for the day. His plan was to slip the paper under the door, and cantrip it across the floor near Repdal's desk. Maybe she'd suspect something, but maybe not. As he rounded the corner to the hall he saw someone else at Repdal's door, fiddling with the lock.<p>

It was her! The woman from the barn! Conrad pointed at her and spoke in a commanding voice, "Eldonza the Ravengirl!"

The woman looked up, startled. Then recovered quickly when she recognized the tall wizard. "Oh, it's only you." She noticed the strange hat of crinkled metal foil he was wearing, but did not grasp it's purpose.

"I figured out your name!" Conrad continued, looking for a reaction.

"You did? I mean, you did. But it doesn't matter. I already knew. I mean, of course I already knew my name. The point is, what does Repdal know about me?" The woman had regained her composure and returned the mask of bored contempt to her face.

"So your name is Eldonza?" Conrad asked.

She paused, unsure how to continue. Her hand forced, she finally admitted, "Yes, I guess... but it's not important. What's important is getting the information Repdal has on that door I came through. And how it works."

Conrad grinned, "I'm working on it. I got some notes that have something to do with it!" He held up the page he had stolen. "But the message is encrypted." Conrad paused a moment. "I'll need my books to figure out what the words really mean." He looked at her nervously. Could she still read his thoughts? Could she tell he was lying? Or would the lead foil on his head work?

The newly named Eldonza looked at him blankly. She was trying to read his mind, but the lead foil hat was, indeed, working. She didn't like losing control of the situation like this. "How do I know I can trust you to finish?" she responded, a little too quickly.

"Oh I'm much too interested to quit now, believe me!" he looked at her more confidently. Conrad couldn't believe the hat was actually working, and he was dazzled by his own genius. His confidence and arrogance began to return. "Yeah, it shouldn't take long. Toaster didn't seem like anything special, at least from his spellbook. I'm sure I'll break his code in no time."

Still feeling cornered, and a eager to be rid of him, Eldonza decided to concede the books. "The books are still under the feedbox. About three feet to the left of where they used to be."

Conrad looked surprised. She shrugged. "Last place I figured you'd look."

"You guessed right," Conrad admitted. "I was trying to think of the most unlikely and difficult place to hide them, not the easiest." He slipped the original document under the door to Repdal's room, and gave it a magical push across the floor. Then he turned and hurried away blindly eager to reclaim his property, and his security.

The woman stood there thinking the name over and over, _-Eldonza, Eldonza, Eldonza... nothing-_ It didn't seem right. But it didn't seem wrong. Like everything else. She pondered the syllables, repeating them over and over until they lost all meaning and started sounding like nonsense words.

After a minute or two, she suddenly started. The distraction of learning her name (maybe) had prevented her from remembering what had happened in the barn earlier to make her leave in the first place. The ambush the criminal named Scorpion and his brother Vlad the shepherd had set for Conrad. How long had it been? Conrad was tall and walked fast, and must be almost there. Did it matter? Should she care? What should she do? What would Eldonza do? Who was Eldonza, anyway?


End file.
